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Full text of "The Poetical works of Samuel Woodworth"

FROM THE LIBRARY OF 

REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 

BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 

THE LIBRARY OF 

PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 






Neither a borrower, nor a lend- 
er be — 

For loan oft loses both itself an d 
friend. 

SUAKESPEA HE. 



Florence E . Brig 



gvs. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

Princeton Theological Seminary Library 



http://archive.org/details/poetisOOwood 



THE 



APR 12 1934 

POETICAL ^Il^KS 



'V 



> 



OP 






SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 



EDITED BY HIS SON. 






IN TWO VOLUMES. 

Vol. I. 



NEW YOEK: 

CHARLES SCRIBNER, GRAND STREET. 

1861. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, 
By FREDERICK A. WOOD WORTH, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States 
for the Northern District of California, 



M'CREA & MILLER STEREOTYPER8. 

15 Vandewater Street. 

PRINTED BY C. A- ALVOKO 



THE NAME AND MEMORY 

OF 

MY MOTHER, 
(the poet's heart-treasure.) 

T1IESK 

forms of IHir Jfa%r 

ATIE 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 

BY 

FREDERICK A. WOODWORTS 



CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 



Introductory Notice of Samuel "Woodworth page 11 

PASTOEAL POEMS. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 31 

THE YTLLAGE CLOCK 33 

MY FATHER'S FARM 34 

THE HAYMAKERS 34 

HARVEST HOME 36 

THE WATERMELON v 38 

8WEET SECLUSION 39 

THE MILKMAID 40 

THE MOONBEAM 41 

COME TO MY COT 42 

MORN OF MAY 44 

THE COTTAGE LASS 45 

TnE PRIDE OF THE VALLEY 46 

DANCING GAYLY 47 

THE BALM OF THE HEART 48 

EVENING 49 

I LOVE TO HEAR 50 

YES OR NO 51 

GOOD MORNING 52 

COME LET US TRIP IT LIGHTLY . . 54 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 



SENTIMENTAL POEMS. 

TO MY WIFE , PAGE 55 

THE SIGH 57 

A SMILE FROM THEE . 58 

THE WBEATH OF LOVE 59 

THE PORTRAIT 61 

love's LEGER 61 

TO SOMEBODY 63 

THE GAELAND 04 

TO A NOSEGAY 65 

PEACEFUL HOME 6T 

LOVE AND JEALOUSY 67 

MUSIC THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE 6S 

I LOVE ONLY THEE 69 

LOVE'S EYES 70 

LOVE AND VALOE 71 

A KISS 72 

GIVING AND RECEIVING 73 

TO MAEIA 74 

AND DID I UPBEAID YOU 75 

NATURE AND THE PAS8IONS 76 

I HAD A LYRE 7S 

THE MEETING 79 

A DREAM SO 

THE SMILE OF LOVE SI 

I HBAED A SWEET STEAIN b'2 

HAERIET'S FAVOEITE POEMS . . S3 

MABELLA S8 

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE SO 

THE GAMUT 87 

TO HARRIET 88 

AND MAY I HOPE S9 

TO CAROLINE 90 

WE AEE ONE 91 

RETURNING HOME 92 

BANKRUPTCY OF THE HEART 93 

A NUPTIAL SONG 94 

THE WIDOWED IVY 95 

CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS 96 

land's end 93 

the tear of gratitude 99 



CONTEXTS OF VOLUME I. ( 

SPRING AND AUTUMN PAGE 100 

TO ADELAIDE FELICITY 101 

TO MISS SARAH HOWARD 102 

THE KALEIDOSCOPE 103 

TITE IMPRISONED DEBTOR 104 

THE FLOWERS OF LIFE 105 

EDWIN DELISLE 103 

FRIENDSHIP 109 

HIBERNIA'S TEARS Ill 

CALUMNY 112 

OH TRUST NOT HOPE 113 

AX IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH 114 

THE DEAF AND DUMB 116 

BEAUTY, SWEET MYSTERIOUS POWER 11 T 

THE MINSTREL US 

A DUETT — NOW THE TORCH 119 

CONFIDING WOMAN 120 

nARLEM MARY 120 

THE BASHFUL LOYER .' 121 

THE NEEDLE 122 

WILLIAM'S GE AYE 1 23 

THIS LIFE IS NOT THE YALE OF WO 125 

A TRIO — ADIEU TO LOYE 120 

TnE TOMB OF HENRY 127 

NO MORE SHALL HOPES ILLUSIYE DREAM 129 

YOU HESITATE — O THEN 'TIS YOU 129 

A REQUEST 130 

TO A LADY — WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM 131 

DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM 132 

ANSWER TO A LADY WnO SENT HER ALBUM FOR A CONTRI- 
BUTION 1 33 

O WHAT IS YTRTUE ? 135 

RONDEAU 13G 

TO MARY 137 

DUETT — AWAY WITH CARE AND SORROW 13S 

WKITTKN" IN MY NIECE'S ALBUM 141 

A TURKISH SONG 142 

AW A KE, MY DEAR JANE 148 

THE SICILIAN KNIGHT 144 

THE KISS OF LOYE 145 

HOPE AND MEMORY 146 

THE HARP TEAT I STRUNG 147 



8 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 

THE HAPPY FAMILY PAGE 148 

TO MISS HARRIET T K, OF HEMPSTEAD, L. 1 149 

TO MISS MARY JANE Y G, OF GREENSBUBGH, PA 150 

EPITHALAMIUM - 152 

LOVES SHE LIKE ME 153 

I SIGH NOT FOR GLORY 154 

TO A LADY ON PARTING WITH A COPY OF THE " DEWDROPS 1 ' . . . 155 

LADY, ACCEPT THIS LITTLE BOOK 155 

YES, LOVE HATH ITS SORROWS 156 

THE LOCK OF HAIR 157 

MY CARD-RACK 158 

LOVE, GENTLE FAIR, CAN BOA8T A SOURCE DIVINE 159 

THE WHITE COTTAGE 161 

AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS 163 

MARY'S GRAVE 165 

THE ORPHAN MAID 166 

TO MARY ANN 16T 

THE BOOK OF THE HEART 163 

FOR viola's ALBUM 169 

DUETT — WHEN GRIEF THE HEART BENUMBS 1T0 

TO ELIZA 171 

TO A YOUNG LADY 172 

THE SILENT CONFESSION 173 

O ! SAY, CAN THIS BE LOVE ? 174 

KATHLEEN O'MOORE 175 

TO A 176 

TO IANTHE . . . v 177 

SMILE OF AFFECTION 179 

THE ADIEU 179 

KELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 

THE NATIVITY 181 

THE INCARNATION . . .'. 182 

REDEMPTION 184 

GOD IN HIS TEMPLE 185 

THE WORLD OF MIND — FIRST DAY OF CREATION 187 

" " " SECOND DAY OF CREATION 188 

MIRIAM'S SONG 189 

OPEN THE DOOR 191 

HOW SHALL I COME BEFORE HIM 192 

HAPPINESS 193 

CONSECRATION 195 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 9 

SIN NO MORE PAfl K 196 

AND DID I SAY ? 197 

THE PARALYTIC'S DEPRECATION 198 

BE WISE 199 

PHILOSOPHY AND RELIGION 200 

WEEPING MARY 201 

NEW JERUSALEM 203 

REGENERATION 204 

BRIGHT IS THE WORD 205 

HYMN ON THE CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH 206 

SEEK YE THE LORD 207 

FATHER, THOU ART GOOD 203 

THE WIDOW 209 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN 211 

ON HEARING A SERMON ON THE PLEASURES OF RELIGION 212 

FAITH 213 

THE SOLAR SYSTEM 214 

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE 21 7 

EPITAPH — SHE IS NOT HERE 225 

EPITAPH ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 226 

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT 227 

A MONODY — FLORIAN 229 

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ANNA GREENLEAF 233 

EPITAPH ON A YOUTH 235 

" ON A WIFE AND MOTHER 235 

" ON AN INFANT 236 

" — AH SEEK NOT, READER 236 

" ON A CHARMING AND MUCH LAMENTED FEMALE 236 

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

A COLLOQUY WITn THE MUSE . 237 

NAY, ASK ME NOT FOR WIT OR RHYME 241 

FASHION3 242 

AN ODE FOR THE GRAND CANAL CELEBRATION, 1825 247 

THE GRAND CANAL 251 

DFK ANT*S ADDRESS ON ASCENDING WITH A BALLOON 253 

THE AERONAUT'S ADDRESS 254 

AN ^ronaut's farewell 256 

NEWSPAPERS 257 

THE ZODIAC 259 

THE SEASONS 262 

THE FIREMAN 269 



10 COXTEXTS OF VOLUME I. 



NEW YORK PAGE 271 

TALE COLLEGE 274 

TO MISS MARY WORTHINGTON MORRIS 27u 

MORNING 277 

TO ARTHUR KEENE. THE VOCALIST _ > 

THREE IMPROMPTUS ON THE ROOM IN WHICH SHAKESPEARE WAS 

BORN 279 

CRITICS 2S0 

TO MISS , ON HER EMBARKING FOR HAVRE . 

TO MY FRIEND. M. E. PARMLY. ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. . 282 

TO THEODORE S. FAY, ON niS DEPARTURE FOE EUROPE 883 

THE PAST 285 

THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE 28fi 



INTRODUCTORY NOTICE 

OF 

SAMUEL ¥OOD¥ORTH, 

PEEPAEED FEOM VAETOU8 SOTJEOE8, 

By GEORGE ]P. MORRIS. 



• • • 



Samuel Woodworth was born at Scitu- 
ate, Plymouth county, in the state of Mas- 
sachusetts, on the thirteenth of January, 
1785. He was the youngest of four child- 
ren. His father was a soldier of the Revo- 
lution. 

At the age of fourteen, young Wood- 
worth produced several effusions in verse, 
in which his schoolmates and the clergy- 
man of the parish thought they discovered 
traits of genius deserving encouragement 



12 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

and cultivation. He was, accordingly, 
with the approbation of his parents, placed 
under the care of the Rev. Nehemiah 
Thomas. In the family of this excellent 
man, Master Woodworth remained one 
year ; during which time he was taught 
the English and Latin grammars, and 
made great proficiency in the study of the 
classics. 

Soon afterward he found it necessary to 
make choice of some occupation by which 
he might procure a livelihood. He chose 
the profession of a printer ; and, after bid- 
ding adieu to his native town, proceeded 
to Boston, where he bound himself an ap- 
prentice to Benjamin Bussel, editor and 
proprietor of the " Columbian Centinel," 
with whom he continued until the term of 
his apprenticeship exjrired, in 1806. Dur- 
ing this period he employed his leisure- 
hours in writing poetry for the different 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 13 

periodical publications then issued in that 
city, under the signature of Selim. He 
continued to use this nom de plume for 
most of his writings in after-life, and was 
often called by this name among his 
intimate friends. 

In 1807, he published a weekly sheet at 
New Haven, entitled the " Belles-Lettres 
Repository," and wrote a long poem, from 
which we have made several selections in 
the present volume. The following year 
he passed in Baltimore, during which time 
he contributed many of his best poems to 
the newspapers of that city. In the spring 
of 1809 he proceeded to New York, where, 
in 1810, he married an amiable young 
lady, by whom he had a large family of 
children. 

During the contest between the United 
States and Great Britain, in 1812-14, Mr. 
Wood worth conducted a weekly newspaper 



14 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

in New York, entitled "The War," in which 
he chronicled our victories by land and sea. 
He also, at that period, supplied, with his 
ever-ready pen, poetical tributes to Amer- 
ican valor and patriotism, which still live 
in the memory of many whom they then 
delighted. He edited at the same time a 
monthly magazine, called the "Halcyon 
Luminary and Theological Repository," 
devoted to the promulgation of the doc- 
trines of the New Church (Swedenbor- 
gian), of which he was a sincere pro- 
fessor, and for some time a licentiate, in 
the city of New York. 

In 1816, he wrote the " Champions of 
Freedom," a novel in two volumes ; and, at 
a later date, a series of papers, in prose, 
entitled "The Confessions of a Sensitive 
Man." He subsequently conducted "The 
Casket," " The Parthenon," and the " Lit- 
erarv Gazette." He was associated with 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 15 

the friend who prepares this brief sketch 
of him in the establishment of the u New 
York Mirror," during the first year of .its 
publication, which was commenced on the 
second of August, 1823 ; and ever after- 
ward he remained a frequent contributor 
to its columns. At this period of his life, 
he wrote much for the stage ; and his do- 
mestic opera of the " Forest Rose" still 
retains its popularity. 

His poetical correspondence was curious 
and unique ; that with Zorayda is about as 
fair a specimen of the whole, as the single 
brick of antiquity was of the quality of 
the building it represented. 
to selim. 

Enchanting minstrel ! to whose lay 
My pulses would responsive play, 
Till reason yields her genial sway 

To fascination's power : 
I grieve that Fate should be so hard, 
That Fortune shuns a modest bard, 
Who vainly asks of Fame reward — 

A laurel or a flower. 



16 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

You wake your magic lyre in vain. 
And fruitless bid its chords complain ; 
All listen, all admire the strain, 

And •wonder whence it flows : 
But were the world informed with truth, 
Patrons would never raise the youth : 
Envy would show his venomed tooth. 

And scorn increase his woes. 

Such is a modern poet's fate, 
Unless his sphere is with the great, 
TVhen gold will giTe his genius weight. 

And purchase smiles of Fame. 
But, ah ! a bard, with soul of fire, 
Tho' blest with Pope's or Milton's lyre, 
If humbly born, must scarce aspire 

To lisp her envied name. 

Then, Selim, throw thy lyre away. 
Nor deign to waste its dulcet lay 
On souls who cannot, while you play, 

Appreciate the strain; 
Whose prejudice forbids to know 
The sweets which in your numbers flow- 
Inspiring joy, relieving wo, 

And lessening every pain. 

TO Z OR A YD A. 

Does Selim wake his lyre in vain. 

And fruitless breathe the pensive strain, 

Because his brows no laurel gain. 

And he obscurely sings ? 
As well might fair Zorayda say, 
The sylvan fountains vainly play, 






SAMUEL WOODWORTH. .1*1 

When forests hide their darkened way, 
And rocks conceal their springs. 

But, lovely minstrel ! learn to know 
Their streamlets kiss the meads below, 
Who drink unconscious whence they flow, 

And thence derive their smile ; 
So may his song, perhaps, impart 
A glow of transport to the heart 
Bid rapture smile, or grief depart, 

And he unknown the while. 

Do Selim's numbers flow in vain, 
Because, as hundreds more complain, 
Forttt>~e will ne'er reward the strain, 

Nor gild his vocal reed ? 
Then, where Canary blooms in spring, 
Her golden tenants vainly sing, 
If hunger urge to spread the wing, 

Or stoop to peck the seed. 

But know, where'er the songster rove, 
The strain he warbles through the grove, 
Delights himself, or charms his love, 

Whose charms the strain inspire : 
So I the lingering hour beguile, 
Lean o'er my harp, entranced the while, 
And gain, from her I love, a smile, 

Whose beauty tunes my lyre. 

No, Selim does not sing in vain, 
If fair Zorayda hear the strain, 
And in her matchless numbers deign 

To plead the poet's cause ; 
For others Fate may trophies pile, 
Serener jovs are his the while; 

2 



LS INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

He asks no fortune but her smile, 
No fame but her applause. 

TO SELIM. 

Go on, contented youth ! Zorayda err'd — 
Resume your lyre, and charm the Paphian grove, 

Nor beg the boon, but claim your just reward, 
The admiration of the sex you love. 

But if the happy fair who tunes your lyre 

Reciprocate the flame her Selim sings, 
Let Love not always whisper from the wire, 

But loftier numbers animate the strings. 

Tour country's glory claims exalted praise, 
In years an infant, but matured in fame ; 

Heroes are hers whose acts deserve your lays, 
Then gild your rising song with Freedom's name. 

When foreign despots dare usurp the deep, 
And add new wrongs to insults unredressed, 

"With bolder hand the chords indignant sweep, 
And vengeance wake in every freeman's breast. 

And should our injuries at length demand 
Bellona's banner once again unfurled, 

Then let the strain, which fires the patriot band, 

Swell like our thunders, which shall shake the world. 

The sword of vengeance will not gleam in vain, 

Nor vainly burst our cataracts of fire ; 
Freedom shall ride triumphant o'er the main, 

And Europe's pirates in dismay retire. 

The dove of peace shall soon regain her nest, 
And Jove's blest bird the olive branch display; 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 19 

Then he the change in softer notes expressed, 
And Love again be warbled in your lay. 

Soft as the zephyrs, when they fan the lake, 
And dimpling smiles betray the ravished kiss, 

In sweeter tones your numbers then may wake, 
And every note breathe friendship, love, and peace. 

So I have seen the bolt of vengeance hurled, 
While, clothed in tempests, angry nature frowned ; 

Anon her smiles were scattered o'er the world, 
And sweeter wreaths her glowing temples bound. 

Bright gems of silver glittered from the spray, 

And deeper tints in every blossom glowed ; 
The woodland songsters caught a livelier lay, 

And melody in richer streamlets flowed. 

TO ZORAYDA. 

Ah ! why, sweet minstrel ! why bid Selim soar 

Beyond the limits of his humble sphere ? 
Why bid him ape the thunder's awful roar, 

nd swell the train in madd'ning war's career ? 

Forbear, dear girl ! to urge the strange request- 
He cannot rouse his milky heart to rage ; 

Then let him lull the timorous bird to rest. 
Or feel it dance with pleasure in its cage. 

His gentle muse on Heliconia strays, 

Or gayly sports in sweet Pierian bowers ; 
And, when descending to inspire his lays, 

Her airy form is but the breath of flowers. 

Minerva's helm her brow could ne'er sustain ; 
The sword of Mars her arm could never wield — 



20 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

He cannot woo her to a task so vain — 
She flies with terror the embattled field. 

He once essayed ; but, like the Mantuan swain, 

Apollo checked his vain presumptuous pride- 
Forbade him to attempt the daring strain, 
Nor paint the scene where brave Montgomery died. 

He blushed, obeyed, nor more mistakes his powers; 

One wish alone his ardent soul employs — 
In Beauty's smile to bask life's summer hours, 

To feast on love, and banquet on its joys. 

Life is a chase, the game terrestrial bliss ; 

If shadows please, why not a shade pursue ? 
He tastes it in affection's nectared kiss ; 

His song affords it — if approved by you. 

There is a magic harp whose dulcet tones 

JEolus only has the skill to wake ; 
Which breathes to Night its sweetly-singing moans, 

If no rude blast the soft enchantment break. 

He came with fragrance on his lucid wings, 
Paused as he passed, enraptured at the sight ; 

Then fondly stooped and kissed the silken strings, 
TVhich woke in ecstacy, and breathed delight. 

The playful god in transport bore away 
The ravished sweets his lawless kisses stole ; 

And distance heard the breezy notes decay, 
In sighs whose softness harmonized the soul 

But Boreas came with rude disastrous breath, 
And swept the tender strings with direful force, 

Harsh Discoed waked, and, like the bird of death, 
Shrieked to the gale in accents loud and hoarse. 



SAMUEL WOODWORTil. 21 

Such is the lyre which Selim, when a child, 
Received with rapture from the pensive muse ; 

Its whispers please him, though untaught and wild; 
But loftier tones the trembling chords refuse. 

1 then permit him still the gentler strain, 

In all its tender languishments, to wake ; 
For if he rudely sweep the strings again, 

He fears, Zorayda, that his lyre will break. 

TO SELIM. 

Has Selim the soul which his numbers portray, 
And is it expressed in the glance of his eye? 

Then would I for ever exist in the ray, 
While mine to his harp should respond with a sigh. 

If his heart truly throb to the notes of his lyre, 

And is in his accents as sweetly expressed, 
His voice must be music — must rapture inspire ; 

To quaff the rich melody is to be blest. 

If his feelings are justly portrayed by his muse, 

And are in his visage correctly displayed, 
What fair but with rapture that visage reviews, 

Reflection's fair model, by beauty arrayed ? 

In short, if his mind is expressed in his lays, 
. So melting in sorrow, in rapture so warm, 
And his form correspond, it were rashness to gaze — 
The heart, unresisting, must yield to the charm. 

But, ah 1 if hypocrisy warble the strain, 
And the soul have no part in its magical sweets, 

1 tell me, and then ape Apollo in vain, 
But never emerge from thy secret retseats. 



22 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

The whole career of Samuel Wo^dworth 
was full of interest. He has been eulo- 
gized by Clinton, Webster, Channing, 
Everett, Halleck,* Pinkney, Irving, Pauld- 

* Fitz Greene Halleck rendered a graceful tribute to 
Woodworth in these beautiful lines — " To the Poet's 
Daughter, written in the Album of Miss Harriet Wood- 
worth." 

"A lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme. 
A lady asks ? There was a time 
When, musical as play-bell's chime 

To wearied boy, 
That sound would summon dreams sublime 
Of pride and joy. 

" But now the spell hath lost its sway, 
Life's first-born fancies first decay, 
Gone are the plumes and pennons gay 

Of young Romance ; 
There linger but her ruins gray, 

And broken lance. 

" 'Tis a new world— no more to maid, 
Warrior, or bard, is homage paid ; 
The bay-tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade, 

Men's thoughts resign ; 
Heaven placed us here to vote and trade, 

Twin tasks divine ! 

'Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks ; the green 
And growing leaves of seventeen 



I 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 23 

ing, Griswold, Duyckinck, Story, Sir Wal- 
ter Scott, and other eminent scholars and 

Are round her ; and, half hid, half seen, 

A violet flower, 
Nursed by the virtues she hath been 

From childhood's hour. 

" Blind passion's picture — yet for this 
We woo the life-long bridal kiss, 
And blend our every hope of bliss 

With hers we love ; 
Unmindful of the serpents hiss 

In Eden's grove. 

" Beauty — the fading rainbow's pride, 
Youth — 'twas the charm of her who died 
At dawn, and by her coffin's side 

A grandsire stands, 
Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried 

Of mountain lands. 

" Youth's coffin — hush the tale it tells ! 
Be silent, memory's funeral bells I 
Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells 

Untold till death, 
And where the grave-mound greenly swells 

O'er buried faith. 

" Bat what if hers are rank and power, 
Armies her train, a throne her bower, 
A kingdom's gold her marriage dower, 

Broad seas and lands ? 
What if from bannered hall and tower 

A queen commands ? 



24 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

gentlemen. Several of his poems were a i 
tributed to Wordsworth ; and, as such, be 

" A queen ? Earth's regal moons have set. 

Where perished Marie Antoinette ? 

Where's Bordeaux's mother? Where the jet- 
Black Haytian dame ? 

And Lusitania's coronet? 
And Angouleme 

" Empires to-day are upside down, 
The castle kneels before the town, 
The monarch fears a printer's frown, 

A brickbat's range ; 
Give me, in preference to a crown, 

Five shillings change. 

" But she who asks, though first among 
The good, the beautiful, the young, 
The birthright of a 6pell more strong 

Than these hath brought her ; 
She is your kinswoman in song — 

A Poet's daughter. 

"A Poet's daughter? Could I claim 
The consanguinity of fame, 
Yeins of my intellectual frame ! 

Your blood would glow 
Proudly to sing that gentlest name 

Of aught below. 

"A Poet's daughter — dearer word 
Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard, 
Fit theme for song of bee and bird 
From morn till even, 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 25 

came exceedingly popular in England ; 
from the newspapers of which country 
they were re-copied in the United States, 
as the productions of the great lake-poet. 
Many of his most distinguished fellow- 
laborers in the literary vineyard were 
liberal in their commendations of his effu- 
sions, and he himself w^as one of the most 
conciliatory of critics, and ever ready to 
discern, welcome, and encourage true 
merit, wherever he found it. 

In an outline sketch like this, we can 
allude to only a few of his many gracious 
qualities of head and heart. He was a 
genuine poet of Nature's own creation. 



And wind-harp by the breathing stirred 
Of star-lit heaven. 

"My spirit's wings are weak, the fire 
Poetic comes but to expire ; 
Her name needs not my humble lyre 

To bid it live ; 
Slie hath already from her sire 

All lard can give." 



26 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

He wrote because he could not help yield- 
ing to the impulse of his genius ; and all 
his productions breathe a pure, healthy, 
benevolent spirit, and are invariably sound 
in sentiment and musical in expression. 

The three previous editions of the poeti- 
cal works of Samuel "Woodworth being 
entirely out of print, this first complete 
edition will, no doubt, not only prove the 
truth of our estimate of his genius, but be 
a valuable contribution to American litera- 
ture. 

Woodworfch's life was imbued with the 
same kind, gentle, and amiable spirit 
which marked his writings. In all the 
relations of husband, father, friend, and 
citizen, he was most exemplary ; and those 
who knew him best, most appreciated his 
worth. He was deservedly and universal- 
ly beloved. Many of his productions have 
the elements of perpetuity within them. 



SAMUEL WOODWORIII. 27 

His " Old Oaken Bucket"* will be sung, 

read, and admired, as long as cool water 

from the well continues to slake the thirst 

of the weary traveller. 

* The following reminiscence possesses sufficient in- 
terest, Ave think, to warrant us in presenting it here. It 
is a condensed private letter received from one whose 
authority in the matter cannot be questioned. In re- 
ference to the period of the production of the " Old 
Oaken Bucket,'* the writer says: "It was written in the 
spring or summer of 1817. The family were living at 
the time in Duane street. The poet came home to dinner 
one very warm day, having walked from his office, 
somewhere near the foot of Wall street. Being much 
heated with the exercise, he drank a glass of water — 
New York pump water — exclaiming, as he replaced 
the tumbler on the table, ■ That is very refreshing ; 
but how much more refreshing would it be to take a 
good long draught, this warm day, from the old oaken 
bucket I left hanging in my fathers well, at home V 
Hearing this, the poet's wife, who was always a sug- 
gestive body, said, ' Selim, why wouldn't that be a 
pretty subject for a poem?' The poet took the hint, 
and. under the inspiration of the moment, sat down and 
poured out from the very depths of his heart those 
beautiful lines which have immortalized the name of 
Woodworth." 



28 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE OF 

Of this charming pastoral song, "William 
Leggett, one of the most careful and dis- 
criminating critics of our time, has thus 
spoken : " Its merit consists in the graphic 
accuracy of the description, the simplicity 
and nature of its sentiments, and the me- 
lodious flow of the versification. It appeals 
to feelings cherished in every human 
bosom, which, though they may be sup- 
pressed for a while, can never be extin- 
guished ; but are called up anew by such 
strains, as the one we are speaking of. with 
a train of sweet associations, that * lap us 
in Elysium/ Amidst the thousand vexa- 
tions and perplexities of business, the mere 
perusal or accidental hearing of this song, 
gathers around us the scenes and com- 
panions of our school-boy days, creating in 
our hearts a tide of emotions, fresh and 
pure as the fountain that gushes from the 
rock of the desert. We hear the splash 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 29 

of the water as it falls down the sides of 
the moss-lined well ; we view the dimpling 
and rippling undulations of the surface be- 
low, as it is sprinkled by the dripping 
upon it ; we see on one side the meadow, 
green with the fragrant luxuriance of sum- 
mer, and on the other, the bridge and the 
cataract, and the dairy-house; the cool- 
ness of the water is on the lip, familiar 
noises are sounding in our ear, and, in 
short, this delightful little poem forms 
around us, with the delusive power of a 
dream, a chain of heart-hoarded circum- 
stances which can never be united again, 
except by the witchery of the poet, or the 
wand of fancy, in those still hours when 
she exerts full influence over our minds." 

But it is not necessary to discuss the 
literary merits of Samuel Woodworth. We 
can safely leave his fame as a poet to 
time and his country. 



30 SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

Six years previous to his death, he had 
an attack of paralysis, the effects of which 
he bore with his characteristic fortitude 
and meekness. He breathed his last on 
the ninth of December, 1842, in the fifty- 
eighth year of his age. 



PASTORAL POEMS. 



THE BUCKET. 



How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 
childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
wood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood 
by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract 
fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 



32 THE BUCKET. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, 
For often at noon, when returned from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow- 
ing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
ceive it, 
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 



THE VILLAGE CLOCK. 38 



THE VILLAGE CLOCK. 

The morn awakes, in blushes dressed, 

The lambs are all at play, 
The blackbird quits his dewy nest, 

And carols on the spray ; 
The milkmaid hails the rosy dawn, 

The shepherd seeks his fleecy flock, 
The woods resound to the hunter's horn, 

All roused by the village clock. 
Tick ! tick ! — tick ! tick ! — tick ! tick ! 

All roused by the village clock. 

The milky herd their stores resign, 

And soon regain the mead, 
Where cooling shades and streams combine 

To cheer them while they feed. 
When evening twilight veils the lawn, 

Again the milkmaid trips away, 
While woods resound to the distant horn, 

At the closing hour of day. 
Tick ! tick ! — tick ! tick ! — tick ! tick ! 

At the closing hour of day. 
3 



34 ffrE HAY-MAKERS. 



MY FATHER'S FARM. 

Believe me, if there's aught on earth, 

That can each grief disarm, 
? Tis the sweet spot which gave me birth, 
When smiling memory paints its worth, 

It is my father's farm. 

For every native rural charm 

Adorns my father's farm. 

Though fancy's flight may mock the blast, 

To seek some distant charm, 
How soon her eyes are homeward cast ! 
She roves awhile, but lights, at last, 

Upon my father's farm. 

For every native rural charm 

Adorns my father's farm. 



THE HAY-MAKERS. 

It is sweet, love, to stray, 
"When the noon-tide is over, 

Through the windrows of hay, 
And the white-blossomed clover 



THE HAY-MAKERS. 35 

Where each lass may partake 

In the toil and the pleasure, 
Keeping time, with the rake, 

To the lark's tuneful measure. 
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stra} 7 , 

When the noon-tide is over, 
Through the windrows of hay, 

And the white-blossomed clover. 

There the swains cut their paths 

Through the sections assigned them, 
Leaving sweet-scented swaths 

Swelling gayly behind them. 
Tender childhood and age, 

Sturdy manhood and beauty, 
All with ardor engage 

In so pleasing a duty. 
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray, 

When the noon-tide is over, 
Through the windrows of hay, 

And the white-blossomed clover. 

As the billow of grass 

Over the meadow is driven, 
By some rose-visa ged lass 

7 Tis divided and riven, 
When her swain lends his aid, 

And the green hillock rises, 



36 HARVEST-HOME. 

Then the half-willing maid 

With a sly kiss surprises. 
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray, 

When the noon-tide is over, 
Through the windrows of hay, 

And the white blossomed clover. 

See the gay romping elves, 

Now the sweet task is over, 
All amusing themselves, 

On the balm-breathing clover ; 
There the swain whispers love 

To his heart's dearest treasure, 
Who affects to reprove, 

While her eyes beam with pleasure. 
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray, 

When the noon-tide is over, 
Through the windrows of hay, 

And the white-blossomed clover. 



HARVEST-HOME. 

When mellow autumn yields 
All her golden treasures, 

Then those who dressed the fields, 
Partake of harvest pleasures. 



HARVEST-HOME. 61 



This, lads, is harvest-home : 

Those who labor daily, 
Well know 'tis sweet to come, 

And pass the evening gayly. 
Then let each heart be light, 

Here 's no room for sorrow, 
Joy holds her court to-night, 

Care may call to-morrow. 

Now labor wipes his brow, 

Rest and plenty w r ait him, 
Barn, cellar, rick, and mow, 

Are filled to recreate him. 
Scythe, sickle, rake, and hoe, 

All are now suspended, 
Like trophies in a row, 

For future use intended. 
Then let each heart be light, 

Here 's no room for sorrow, 
Joy holds her court to-night, 

Care may call to-morrow. 

Now gay Pomona's store 
Past exertions blesses ; 

Rich streams of nectar pour, 
Sparkling from her presses. 

Full goblets, steaming board, 
Crown the farmer's labors, 



38 THE WATERMELON. 

These real bliss afford, 

When shared by jovial neighbors. 
Then let each heart beat light, 

Here 's no room for sorrow, 
Joy holds her court to-night, 

Care may call to-morrow. 



THE WATERMELON. 

? Twas noon, and the reapers reposed on the bank 

Where our rural repast had been spread, 
Beside us meandered the rill where we drank, 

And the green willows waved overhead. 
Lucinda, the queen of our rustical treat, 

With smiles, like the season, auspicious, 
Had rendered the scene and the banquet more 
sweet, 

But, oh ! the dessert was delicious ! 

A melon, the richest that loaded the vine, 

The kind-hearted damsel had brought, 
Its crimson core teemed with the sweetest of wine, 

" How much like her kisses I" I thought. 
And I said, as its nectarous juices I quaffed 

" How vain are the joys of the vicious ! 
No tropical fruit ever furnished a draught 

So innocent, pure, and delicious. 



SWEET BBCLUSION. 6\f 

Iii the seeds which embellished this red juicy core 

An emblem of life we may view, 
For human enjoyments are thus sprinkled over 

With specks of an ebony hue. 
But if we are wise to discard from the mind 

Every thought and affection that ? s vicious, 
Like the seed-speckled core of the melon, we '11 
find 

Each innocent pleasure delicious." 



SWEET SECLUSION. 

Here, in scenes of sweet seclusion, 
Far from bustling towns, we dwell, 

While around, in rich profusion, 
Autumn's yellow bounties swell. 

There, the loaded fruit-trees, bending, 
Strew with mellow gold the land ; 

Here, on high, from vines impending, 
Purple clusters court the hand. 

All the day, to recreate us, 

Strains of music freight the breeze, 
Healthful sports at eve awaits us, 

What are city joys to those ? 



40 



THE MILKMAID. 



THE MILKMAID. 



When blushing Aurora first tinges the east, 
Arousing the musical choirs of the wood, 
Inviting the bees to a nectarious feast, 

And the flocks to partake of their dew-sprin- 
kled food, 
As blithe and as gay as the new-awakened day, 
I rise and go tripping with milkpail away, 
And hark ! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the 

spray, 
Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay. 

The innocent plunder I draw from the kine 
Is richly repaid in the fields where they roam, 

And a second supply they will gladly resign, 
When evening invites, and they lowing come 
home. 

Then, cheerful and gay as the first smile of day, 

Again will I trip it with milkpail away ; 

And hark ! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the 
spray, 

Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay. 



THK MOONBEAM. 41 



THE MOONBEAM. 

The moonbeam on the Hudson sleeps, 

While von enamored billow 
Delighted to the stranger creeps, 

And makes his breast her pillow. 
The rest, with dark and frowning mein, 

And jealous murmurs, languish, 
While amorous zephyrs pass the scene, 

And sigh with kindred anguish. 

So, when the fair Pastorals smile 

Her favored Lubin blesses — 
Who steals a kiss, and plays the while 

With her unbraided tresses — 
The shepherds who have wooed in vain, 

In sorrow doomed to languish, 
Behold the happy, envied swain, 

And sigh with jealous anguish. 



42 COME TO MY COT. 



COME TO MY COT. 

I Ve a peaceful little cot, 
In a charming rural spot, 

Far removed from the town's busy hum, 
Where neither strife nor noise 
Can molest our placid joys, 

Oh then hither to my cot will you come ? 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 
Oh haste, my dearest maid, 
And enjoy the fragrant shade, 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 

The honeysuckle there 
With its odor fills the air, 

And the fir lends its fragrant gum, 
While on every verdant spray 
Little songsters carol gay, 

Oh then hither to my cot will you come ? 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 
Oh haste, my dearest maid, 
And enjoy the fragrant shade, 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 

Through the garden, and the mead 
Where the lambkins play and feed, 



COME TO MY COT. 43 

Swells the honey-bee's tuneful hum, 
While the distant lowing kine, 
With the waterfall, combine 

To invite you to my cot — Will you come ? 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 
Oh haste, my dearest maid, 
And enjoy the fragrant shade, 

To my rural little cot will you come ? 

And when the evening's shade 

Is extending over the glade, 
And the woodpecker ceases to drum, 

Then the pensive whip-poor-will, 

From the forest or the hill, 
Still invites you to my cot — Will you come ? 
To my rural little cot will you come ? 

Oh haste, my dearest maid, &c. 

Dearest maiden, linger not, 

Come and share my peaceful lot, 
Far removed from the town's busy hum, 

For if Eden seemed a wild 

Until lovely woman smiled, 
Oh how can I be happy till you come ? 
To my rural little cot will you come ? 

Then haste, my dearest maid, 

And enjoy the fragant shade, 
To my rural little cot will you come ? 



44 MORN OF MAY. 



MORN OF MAY. 

Arise, my love — the sun appears 

To gild the infant day, 
His golden beam the landscape cheers, 
And nature smiles amid her tears, 

To greet the morn of May. 

Arise, my love — the lilac blooms, 

The blossomed peach is gay, 
The mead its flowery vest resumes, 
And freights the zephyr with perfumes, 
To cheer the morn of May. 

Oh ! then arise — 'tis love invites, 

Together let us stray ; 
Thy form, which every charm unites, 
Shall lend a thousand new delights 

To gild the morn of May. 



. 



THE COTTAGE LASS. 45 



THE COTTAGE LASS. 

The cottage lass, the courtly dame, 

The child of toil, and slave of fashion, 
Alike disown the mystic flame, 

Yet feed with sighs the tender passion. 
Each heart, ere age its fervor chills, 

Is doomed by turns to throb and languish, 
And prove the thousand nameless thrills 

Of bashful love's delicious anguish. 

But infant love attempts in vain 

To fan the flame with gilded pinion, 
And quickly bursts the heavy chain 

That ties him down to wealth's dominion. 
For ah ! that flame but seldom lives 

In breasts with gaudy splendor laden, 
Nor yields them half the joy it gives 

The bashful, blooming, cottage maiden. 



4.6 THE 1'KIDE UF THE VALLEY. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VALLEY. 

The pride of the valley is lovely young Ellen, 

Who dwells in a cottage enshrined by a thicket, 
Contentment and peace are the wealth of hei 
dwelling, 

And truth is the porter that waits at the wicket. 
The zephyr that lingers on violet-down pinion, 

With spring's blushing honors delighted to 
dally, 
Ne'er breathed on a blossom in Flora's dominion, 

So lovely as Ellen, the pride of the valley. 

She 's true to her friend, and she 's kind to her 
mother, 

Nor riches nor honors can tempt her from duty ; 
Content with her station she sighs for no other, 

Though fortunes and titles have knelt to her 
beauty. 
To me her affections and promise are plighted, 

Our ages are equal, our tempers will tally ; 
Oh, moment of rapture ! that sees me united 

To lovely young Ellen, the pride of the valley. 



DANCING GAYLY. 47 



DANCING GAYLY. 



Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, 

Lads and lasses thus convene, 
To the merry pipe and tabor, 

Dancing* gayly on the green. 
To the merry pipe and tabor, 

Dancing gayly on the green. 

Nymphs, with all their native graces, 
Swains with every charm to win, 

Sprightly steps, and smiling faces, 
Tell of happy hearts within. 

Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c. 

Blest with plenty, here the farmer 

Toils for those he loves alone, 
While some pretty smiling charmer, 

Like the land, is all his own. 
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c. 

Though a tear for prospects blighted, 

May, at times, unbidden flow, 
Yet the heart will bound delighted, 

Where such kindred bosoms glow. 
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c. 



48 THE BALM OF THE HEART. 



THE BALM OF THE HEART. 

When the mild star of evening invites to the 

bower, 
Where music and mirth are to revel an hour, 
Dismiss gloomy care, and bid sorrow depart, 
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart. 

Every pleasure is fleeting, and hastens away, 
The fairest blown rose is the first to decay ; 
Then taste of its fragrance before it depart, 
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart. 

Quickly hasten then hither, ye youth and ye fair, 
With eyes beaming pleasure, and hearts void of 

care ; 
Partake of the joys which our revels impart, 
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart- 



RVENING. 4 J 



EVENING. 

Tia pleasant, when the world is still, 

And evening's mantle shrouds the vale, 
To hear the pensive whip-poor-will 

Pour her deep notes along the dale ; 
While through the self-taught rustic's flute 

Wild warblings wake upon the gale, 
And from each thicket, marsh, and tree, 
The cricket, frog, and Katy-dee, 
With various notes assist the glee, 

Nor once through all the night are mute. 

The streamlet murmurs o'er its bed, 

The wanton zephyrs kiss its breast, 
Bid the green bulrush bend its head, 

And sigh through groves in verdure dressed ; 
While Cynthia, from her silver horn, 

Throws magic shades o'er evening's vest ; 
Sheds smiles upon the brow of night, 
Xot dazzling, like day's shower of light, 
But soft as dew, which mocks the sight 

Till seen to sparkle on the thorn. 
4 



50 I LOVE TO HEAR. 



I LOVE TO HEAR. 

I love to hear the flute's sweet notes, 

On zephyr's balmy pinion borne ; 
While soft the melting cadence floats, 
And sighing echoes wake to mourn. 
Stealing on the raptured ear, 
At the closing hour of day, 
Wildly warbling, sweet and clear, 
Grateful as affection's tear, 
Then in murmurs die away. 

I love to hear, when blushing morn 

First tips the clouds with rosy hue, 
The new-waked lark salute the dawn, 
His matin song of praise renew. 
Singing as he skims the plain, 
Or directs his flight above ; 
Waking all the tuneful train 
To begin the sylvan strain, 
Harmonizing every grove.' 

I love to hear, when mid-day heat 
With listless languor fills the brain, 

Deep in some shady, cool retreat, 
The distant waterfall complain, 



YES OK NO. 51 

As it leaps the craggy mound, 
Pouring down the rocky height, 

Foaming o'er the pebbled ground, 
While it sparkles on the sight. 

But when with her, whose image dwells 

Within my glowing breast, I stray, 
The music more divinely swells. 
The lark more sweetly tunes his lay ; 
While beneath the shade we rove, 

Murmuring streamlets sooth the ear, 
Through the calm sequestered grove, 
Echo whispers only love — 
Cupids only hover near. 



YES OR NO. 

The groves their vernal sweets have lost, 

Xo blossoms now perfume the gale, 
The lawns are silvered o'er with frost, 

And autumn lingers in the vale. 
But do the seasons, as they roll, 

Affect the heart with joy and wo ? 
Can autumn thus depress the soul : 

Or spring elate it? — Yes, or no ? 



52 GOOD-MORNING. 

The grove again shall yield its shade, 

And vernal sweets perfume the gale, 
The modest violet deck the glade, 

And richest verdure clothe the vale. 
But will the flower of hope survive, 

And gain from spring a brighter glow ? 
A smile, sweet maid, would bid it thrive, 

Wilt thou bestow it ? — Yes, or no ? 



GOOD-MORNING. 

The blushing precursor of Phoebus expands 

The crystalline portals of light, 
And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her 
hands 
To crimson the mantle of night. 
Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky. 

With rapture I greet my dear Jane, 
Whose health-glowing visage and love-beaming 
eye 
Aurora but mimics in vain — 

" Good-morning !" 

Thy presence to me is the dawning of light, 
And pleasure illumines my breast ; 

But, ah ! in thy absence, morn changes to night — 
Hope sinks like the star of the west. 



COMIC, LET US TRIP IT LIGHTLY. 53 

Then let us, my fair one, the moments improve 
Which morning allows us for bliss, 

Let the new-risen day be devoted to love, 
And, in earnest, accept of a kiss — 

" Good-morning ! v 

When evening returns, and in slumber I lie, 

Then fancy the scene shall retrace ; 
Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye, 

And restore me thy blissful embrace. 
And when through the lattice Aurora's tints play, 

Oh fly to the arms of thy swain, 
With him taste the sweets of the infantile day, 

And hear him repeat, on the plain — 
" (xood-mornino; !" 



COME, LET US TRIP IT LIGHTLY. 

Come, let us trip it lightly, love, 

Where Flora's sweets are blending ; 
The moon is beaming brightly, love, 

With starry lamps attending. 
The grove and hill, the mead and rill, 

Have charms that must delight thee, 
Then let us haste their sweets to taste, 

While zephyr's sighs invite thee. 



54 COME, LET US TRIP IT LIGHTLY. 

An hour like this imparts a bliss 
To souls of kindred feeling, 

A pure delight, serenely bright, 
Along the pulses stealing. 

The evening star is peeping, love, 

From yonder paler cluster, 
The glassy lake is sleeping, love, 

Enriched with borrowed lustre. 
The babbling brook, with brighter look, 

Meanders through the dingle ; 
And chirping notes from insect throats, 

In tuneless measures mingle. 
An hour like this, which wakes to bliss, 

The hearts of meaner creatures, 
Must surely light a smile as bright 

On love's expressive features. 



SENTIMENTAL. 



TO MY WIFE. 



Nay, my all of joy that's left, 

Droop not thus in gloom, Lydia ; 
Though each flower of hope be cleft, 

Other buds will bloom, Lydia ; 
Never of the future borrow — 
Though another storm of sorrow 
Rifle every leaf to-morrow 

From the thorny stem, Lydia, 
Let us with unshaken mind, 
Yield such toys, and be resigned, 
And, if nought but thorns we find, 

Make a toy of them, Lydia. 



56 TO MY WIFE. 

Fortune must be blind indeed, 

We mistake her powers, Lydia, 
Else could love unheeded plead ? 

Faithful love, like ours, Lydia ? 
Let us, then, her gifts disdaining, 
Without murmur, or complaining, 
Or the will of Heaven arraigning, 

Fix our hopes above, Lydia ; 
Though, while we are pilgrims here, 
Poverty may press severe, 
Yet we shall, through life, my dear, 
Still be rich in love, Lydia, 

Droop not, dearest — God is kind 

When he seems severe, Lydia ; 
Blessings yet remain behind 

Which we hold most dear, Lydia : 
Innocence the soul's best treasure, 
Mutual faith, disdaining measure, 
Love, and its appendant pleasure, 

What can these destroy, Lydia ? 
These are our — with these endued, 
Nought should check our gratitude 
To the source of every good 

Mortals can enjoy, Lydia. 



THK BTGTI, 57 



THE SIGH. 

Softly stealing from her breast 
Ere its lovely keeper knew, 
Forth a sigh emerging flew : 

I received the trembling guest, 
Thrilling in my raptured ear, 

Sinking on my heart to rest, 
With ecstatic throbbings dear. 

Ah ! dear Mary, luckless fair, 
You perceived its flight too late : 

Guard such tell-tale rogues with care ; 

For the tidings which they bear 
Cast the color of our fate. 

Think you what it told my heart ? 

'T was the messenger of peace, 

Bidding every doubt to cease, 
Every sorrow to depart ; 

'T was the olive-bearing dove 
Guiding hope into the ark ; 

'T was the harbinger of love, 
Flitting from that warm recess 

Where thy thoughts in secret dwell : 



58 A SMILE FROM THEE. 

What thy lips would ne'er confess, 
Though thy suppliant sure to bless, 
This sweet fugitive will tell. 

Hark ! it whispers to my heart — 

" Hope alone may revel here ; 
Doubt and cold distrust depart. 

Hers as it responsive heaves, 
Shall confess the urchin's dart 

Rapture with the anguish leaves." 
Tell me not I dream of bliss, 

If I do, still let me sleep, 
Snatch me not from joy like this 
The reality to miss ; 

Never make a wretch to weep. 



A SMILE FROM THEE. 

A smile from thee would banish pain, 

And bid each doubt and sorrow flee, 
I ask but this, once more to gain 

A smile from thee. 
I 've sought thee long, with fruitless sighs, 

And were my bright reward to be 
A tender glance from those soft eyes, 

'T were heaven to me. 
A smile from thee would banish pain, &c. 



j 



THE WREATH OF LOVE. 59 

But ah ! if doomed no more to meet, 

WhateVr my future fate may be. 
This faithful heart will ever beat 

With love for thee. 
And when I close a life of pain, 

The gloomy hour of death will be 
An hour of bliss, if then I gain 

A tear from thee. 
A smile from thee would banish pain, &c. 



THE WREATH OF LOVE. 

Let Fame her wreath for others twine, 
The fragrant wreath of love be mine, 

With balm-distilling blossoms wove ; 
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms 
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms, 

Where havoc's blood-stained banners move 
Be mine to wake the softer notes 
Where Acidalia's banner floats, 

And weave the gentler wreath of love. 

The balmy rose let stoics scorn, 
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn, 
And fear the pleasing pain to prove ; 



60 THE WREATH OF LOVE. 

I '11 fearless bind it to my heart, 
While every pang its thorns impart 

The floweret's balsam shall remove ; 
For, sweetened by the nectared kiss, 
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss, 

And freshens still the wreath of love. 

Give me contentment, peace, and health, 
A moderate share of worldly wealth, 

And friends such blessings to improve ; 
A heart to give when misery pleads, 
To heal or bind each wound that bleeds, 

And every mental pain remove ; 
But with these give — else all deny — 
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh, 

And wedlock be a wreath of love. 

Connubial bliss, unknown to strife, 
A faithful friend — a virtuous wife, 

Be mine for many years to prove : 
Our wishes one, within each breast 
The dove of peace shall make her nest, 

Nor ever from the ark remove ; 
Till called to heaven ; through ages there 
Be ours the blissful lot to wear 

A never-fading wreath of love. 



love's lboer. 61 



THE PORTRAIT. 

That tranquil brow, and pensive eye, 

Those parted lips of ruby dye ; 

Each grace that life and reason give, 

Is kindling here, and seems to live ! 

A playful smile illumes the cheek ! 

Those rubies move ! — 't will speak ! — 't will speak ! 

T was fancy all ! — That senseless bone 
Could ne'er be taught her dulcet tone ; 
No art can teach that eye to move, 
Those ruby lips are dead to love. 
Illusive dream ! — too soon it flies, 
The vision fades ! — it dies ! — it dies ! 



LOVE'S LEGER. 

I own myself your debtor, love, 

For 't is to you my bliss I owe, 
Then say if I'd not better, love, 

Repay the balance kiss I owe ? 
In justice you Tl receipt it, love, 

And prove that you are true to me 
If I should then repeat it, love, 

There '11 be a balance due to me 



62 love's legkr. 

That little urchin Cupid, love, 

The only clerk we keep, you know, 
Is either blind or stupid, love, 

And apt to fall asleep, you know. 
'Tis best, then, thus to jog him, love, 

And make him earn his pay, you know ; 
For, should we chide or flog him, love, 

The boy might run away, you know. 

The rogue possesses talents, love, 

His pinions furnish quills, you know, 
And wiien he strikes a balance, love, 

He must inspect our bills, you know. 
Then let us ne'er dispute, my love, 

While Time enjoyment rifles so, 
But take a kiss to boot, my love, 

I can not stand on trifles so. 

Short reck'nings make long friends, my love, 

Accounts should ne'er be running so, 
Then let us make amends, my love, 

For 'tis unpleasant dunning so. 
Through life's allotted term, my love, 

If thus we do n't forget we owe, 
When death dissolves the firm, my love, 

We '11 pay the only debt w r e owe. 



TO SOMEBODY. 63 



TO SOMEBODY. 

Oh I shall ne'er forget the spot 

Where smiles of joy were wont to greet me, 
Where ardent hearts dissembled not, 

But bounded with delight to meet me. 
Though rugged winter held his sway, 

And all without was cold and dreary, 
Yet, warmed by beauty's melting ray, 

I thought the season bright and cheery. 

But doomed, alas ! too soon to part, 

And wander far from love and beauty, 
I felt a winter in my heart, 

And cheerless seemed the path of duty. 
I dragged along the heavy way 

A lengthened chain that make me weary, 
While Hope refused one glimmering ray 

To light a scene so dark and dreary. 

But see ! at length stern winter flies, 
A brighter season glows before me, 

The summer radiance of those eyes 
Shall yet to life and joy restore me. 



64 THE GARLAND. 

Till then, let retrospection feed 

The flame which smiling hope should cherish, 
For, oh ! how this poor heart would bleed, 

Should thine permit that flame to perish. 



THE GARLAND. 

I would a garland twine, my love, 

But nature's flowers decay, 
And ah ! that brow of thine, my love, 

Deserves a fadeless bay. 
But song shall crown thee, listen ! 

And let those eyes of fire 
With approbation glisten, 

Thy minstrel to inspire. 

'T is not exterior charms, my love, 

That faultless shape and face, 
Those pearly polished arms, my love, 

That air of witching grace — 
But 't is those mental treasures, 

Which few, alas ! can claim, 
By which the poet measures 

Thy beauty, wit, and fame. 

Time dims the brightest eye, my love, 
That form will lose its grace, 



TO A NOSEGAY. 65 

That check its vermeil dye, my love, 

And age will mark the face ; 
But virtue, love, and duty, 

Retain immortal bloom, 
Survive the wreck of beauty, 

And decorate her tomb. 



TO A NOSEGAY. 

Little pledge of fond remembrance, 
Though thy tints so quickly flee, 

Still the lovely donor's semblance 
I can sweetly trace in thee. 

Here the rose and lily, twining, 
Her enchanting face bespeak ; 

For the fairest hues, combining, 
Bloom upon her lovely cheek 

In this blushing pink whicfc decked her, 
Glows an emblem of Ler lip, 

Both distilling balmy nectar, 
Both inviting mine to sip. 

In this violet I discover 

Her sweet eye's cerulean hue, 
5 



66 fO A NOSEGAY. 

Like the brightest star, above her, 
Sparkling in etherial blue. 

When within my bounding bosom 
Mary placed ye, thus entwined, 

Sweetly whispering, " do not lose 'em,'' 
Then what rapture filled my mind ! 

But tyrannic Time is dooming 
All your lovely tints to fade ; 

When you are no longer blooming, 
Can I longer trace the maid ? 

Yes, when all your tints have faded, 
Fragrance still you will retain ; 

Though your beauties be degraded, 
Charms internal will remain. 

Such is Mary — youth is passing — 

All her beauties must decay, 
But her mind is still amassing 
Charms to live an endless day. 



LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 67 



PEACEFUL HOME. 

The heart sustained by hope alone, 
The pains of absence may endure, 

But, ah ! when even hope is flown, 
Its sorrow has no cure. 

'Tis then we sigh, where'er we roam, 

For our maternal, peaceful home. 

Though mourning like a mateless dove, 
The languid heart be doomed to beat, 

It can not, will not, cease to love, 
It finds the pain so sweet ; 

Yet heaves a sigh, where'er we roam, 

For our maternal, peaceful home. 



LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 

When infant Cupid ventured first 

To spread his purple wing, 
It chanced he stopped, to slake his thirst, 

At the Pierian spring ; 



68 MUSIC THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE. 

When, rising from the crystal stream, 

A monster caught his eye, 
Poor Cupid started with a scream, 

But strove in vain to fly. 

To slay the little winged boy 

The demon vainly strove, 
His fangs could wound, but not destroy, 

The son of peerless Jove. 
He follows still — (they never part) 

But vainly vents his ire ; 
Though jealous tortures wring the heart, 

Yet ne'er can love expire. 



MUSIC THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE. 

Yes, Love can discourse independent of eyes, 
The pressure of hands, or the breathing of sighs ; 
Attend, then, its accents, and deign to approve, 
For music, dear girl, is the language of love. 

? T is true that the eyes and the lips may impart 
A counterfeit sentiment, tutored by art ; 
But nought can the pulses of sympathy move 
Like music, for that is the language of love. 



I LOVE ONLY THEE. 69 

The tone of affection is framed in the soul, 
'Tis spirit, unfettered by matter's control; 
For what is the language of seraphs above, 
But music ? — and there 't is the language of love. 

Then doubt, dearest maiden, professions and sighs, 
The glow of the hand, the expression of eyes ; 
But doubt not the souPs aspirations, which prove, 
That music is still the true language of love. 



I LOVE ONLY THEE. 

Believe not the slanders that envy may frame, 

But confess, when the past you review, 
That though malice my couple reproach with his 
name, 

Dear Mary, thy Edwin is true. 
I will own that my heart nutters gayly, awhile, 

For every fair face that I see ; 
But though ever delighted with woman's sweet 
smile, 

I love, dearly love, only thee. 

Repine not that festival joys may detain 
Thy lover awhile from thy arms ; 



70 love's eyes. 

For with each sparkling goblet he ventures to 
drain, 
He whispers a toast to thy charms. 
I will own that, when friendship and evening in- 
vite, 
I join in such revels with glee ; 
But thy smile can alone give me perfect delight, 
For I love, dearly love, only thee. 



LOVE'S EYES. 

Love's eyes are so enchanting, 
Bright, smiling, soft, and granting, 
Pulses play 
At every ray, 
And hearts at every glance are panting. 
Before the beamy eye of morn, 

We view the shades of night receding, 
So tender glances banish scorn, 

For who can frown while love is pleading ? 
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c. 

No bandage can those eyes conceal, 

Though bards in fabled tales rehearse it ; 

For if he wore a mask of steel, 

Affection's ardent gaze would pierce it. 
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c. 



LOVE AND VALOR, 71 

Beware, then, lest some artful elf 

The infant's smiles and armor borrow, 
To win a throb of joy for self, 

And give his victim years of sorrow. 
Love's eyes are so enchanting, 
Bright, smiling, soft, and granting, 
Pulses play 
At every ray, 
And hearts at every glance are panting. 



LOVE AND VALOR. 

Sounds of war were swelling wild, 

Fearful notes the bugle blew ; 
Infant Love, a timid child, 

Trembled at the rat-tat-too. 
But inspired by Valor's breath, 

Love with war familiar grew, 
Fearless view the strife of death, 

Smiled to hear the rat-tat-too. 

Swift a shaft at Valor's heart 
From the infant's bow-string flew 

Valor heeded not the dart, 
List'ning to the rat-tat-too. 



72 A KISS. 

Yet that dart was tipped with red, 
Ella's heart-blood lent the hue ; 

But iu vain had Ella bled, 
Yalor loved the rat-tat-too. 

Through the camp the infant strayed, 

Hope receding now from view ; 
Secret griefs his sighs betrayed, 

Mingling with the rat-tat-too. 
Yalor will not yield to Love, 

Hope to Ella bids adieu ; 
Sad, desponding, widowed dove, 

Listless to the rat-tat-too. 



A KISS. 

Does Eliza remember, ere fashion had taught her 
To lend the heart's impulse hypocrisy's guise, 

How oft, in our plays, to my bosom I caught her, 
And wondered a touch could so brighten the 
eyes ? 

Familiar to me is the sweet recollection, 

I well can remember the thrill and the glow, 

The flush and the smile that illumed her com- 
plexion, 
Like the first ray of morning reflected on snow. 



GIVING AND RECEIVING. 73 

And I asked what it was that the senses thus 
raptured, 
And bade through my pulses such ecstacies roll, 
The charm which reflection bewildered and cap- 
tured — 
A kiss was the answer — it melted my soul. 



GIVING AND RECEIVING. 

The suppliant departed, while gratitude's tear 
In his joy-beaming eye was suspended ; 

My heart bounded light, for my Lydia was near, 
Who thus the donation commended : 

" The bosom which softens at Misery's wound, 
And proffers the balsam to heal him, 

With the glow of contentment must joyfully bound, 
And such is the breast of my Selirn." 

" But which/ 7 1 exclaimed, as the fair one I pressed, 
While her eye with affection was brightened, 

u Receiver, or donor, which think you most blest ? 
Whose joy by the action most heightened ?" 

"The being," she answered, "you saved from de- 
spair, 
Who tastes, by the sudden reversion, 



74 TO MARIA. 

Of exquisite bliss a porportionate share, 
To the depth of his recent immersion." 

Her answer was sweetened with love's nectared 
kiss, 
And my breast with the transport was heaving, 
As I owned, with a sigh, that though giving was 
bliss, 
It was faint to the joy of receiving. 



TO MARIA. 

Awake again thy witching lyre, 
Its tones have slept too long ; 

But thy sweet touches, dear Maria, 

Can call a spirit from the wire, 

With eyes of light and lips of fire — 
Oh wake him into song. 

Why should the sweetest gift of Jove 

In useless silence lie, 
When thou canst make it speak and move, 
To charm our grief, inspire our love, 
And raise our thoughts to things above, 

Why, sweet Maria — why ? 



AND DID I UPBRAID YOU? 75 

Why brood o'er past affliction's smart, 

With sad and tearful eye, 
When thine is the bewitching art, 
The sweetest rapture to impart, 
And kindle joy in every heart, 

Why, loved Maria — why ? 



AND DID I UPBRAID YOU ? 

And did I upbraid you, my love ? 

Oh pardon a fault I deplore ; 
For while you thus sweetly reprove, 

I feel I can never doubt more. 
Xo — no — no — I shall never doubt you more. 

I own I suspected your truth, 

And envied a rival's success ; 
For jealousy pictured a youth 

Whom pity would prompt you to bless. 
Whom pity — pity — pity would prompt you to 

bless. 

And did I upbraid you, my love ? 

Oh pardon a fault I deplore ; 
For while you thus sweetly reprove, 

I feel I can never doubt more. 
No — no — no — I shall never doubt vou more. 



76 NATURE AND THE PASSIONS. 

My doubts I now give to the wind, 

For Mary is constant and fair, 
Though lately I thought her unkind, 
And gave myself up to despair. 
Despair — despair — despair — and gave myself 
up to despair. 

And did I upbraid you, my love ? 

Oh pardon a fault I deplore ; 
For while you thus sweetly reprove, 

I feel I can never doubt more, 
No — no — no — I shall never doubt you more. 



NATURE AND THE PASSIONS. 

The stranger awoke, and with wonder surveyed 
The unexplored regions on which she was 
thrown : 

Rude Chaos the scene — and the infantile maid 
Was Nature, just risen from sources unknown. 

Her form, the fair abstract of Infinite thought, 
The unblemished model of harmony moved ; 

Her accents the spirit of melody taught, 

Her smile was celestial — and Heaven ap- 
proved. 



NATURE AND THE PASSIONS. / 7 

But scarce could the infant existence admire, 
When hosts of rude demons encountered the 
child, 
Revenge and rough Anger, with optics of fire, 
And frenzy-struck Terror, shrieked horribly 
wild. 

Attended by Rapine, fell Murder appeared, 
Led onward by Avarice, Malice, and Hate ; 

Their snaky crests Envy and Jealousy reared, 
As blood-stained Ambition tore laurels from 
fate. 

This phalanx of fiends, with Despair in their trail!, 
With scourges of scorpions the infant assailed, 

And pitiless heard the sweet stranger complain, 
Deep deluged in sorrow which nothing availed. 

Compassion beheld — and to regions above, 
In the incense of sighs, her petition conveyed ; 

Infinity heard, and the answer was — love, 
Who came in the garb of an angel arrayed. 

Her presence made cruel Ambition depart, 
Hate, Murder, and Rapine, the goddess con- 
fessed ; 

Her touch palsied Malice, and blunted his dart, 
And even lank Avarice opened his breast. 



78 I HAD A LYRE. 

She spoke — and Revenge was subdued by the 
charm ; 
She smiled — and the scene was deserted by 
Fear ; 
She sighed — aud pale Jealousy fled with alarm ; 
She wept — and rough Anger dissolved in the 
tear. 

Her magic the vulture transformed to a dove, 
And Xature again was delighted and blest — 

Thus each ruder passion is subject to Love, 
The genius that tempers and governs the rest. 



I HAD A LYRE. 

I had a lyre when hope was young. 

But 't was the plaything of a child ; 
Of love I then delighted sung, 

And swept its chords with transport wild. 

But now its tones I can not swell, 
Its spirit and its voice have fled, 

That lyre is but a tuneless shell, 

For I have sold its chords for bread. 



THE MEETING. 79 



THE MEETING. 

I saw them meet — the pangs of absence o'er, 
And Memory holds a picture of the place : 

'T was at the threshold of her cottage door, 
Eliza met her husband's warm embrace. 

How animated shone her eager eye, 

Where joy's delicious tear suspended hung ! 

Her bosom heaved — but pleasure raised the sigh 
Her voice was mute — but bliss had sealed he: 
tongue. 

Pressed in his arms, the chaste connubial kiss 
Her ruby lips by turns received and gave ; 

Then, as ashamed of the excessive bliss, 
Affection's blush she bids his bosom save. 

But recollection whispered yet a joy 

'T was hers to give ; and from the trance she 
starts, 
Puts in his arms their little infant boy, 

Love's precious pledge, that closer binds their 
hearts. 



80 A DREAM. 

While round their sire the elder prattlers cling ; 

Beg for a kiss ; their little tales recite ; 
Each emulous some trifling boon to bring, 

And share their parents 7 unalloyed delight. 

Forgotten now is separation's smart, 
Or but remembered as the zest of joy ; 

Her smiles are sunshine to his gladdened heart, 
Which love-created fears no more annoy. 

So, wrapped in night, the lonely pilgrim views 
Aurora, blushing, throw her veil aside ; 

And, filled with joy, his lighted path pursues, 
Whence erst bewildered he had wandered wide. 

And is it joy that fills my eye? I cried — 
Ah, no ! — regret, that such was not my lot ; 

But yet to envy ? t was so near allied, 

I blushed — and sighing, left the happy spot. 



A DREAM. 

Oh stay, sweet vision ! lovely phantom, stay ! 

And longer bless me with thy mimic show : 
Ah ! fade not thus to empty air away, 

And leave a wretch awake to real wo. 



TOE SMILE OF LOVE. 81 

And did I dream ? Oil ! 'twas a dream so sweet, 
So full of bliss, that heaven had lost its charms ; 

And I embraced the dear delusive cheat, 

Then woke, and found despair within my arms. 

Joy's sparkling goblet seems to overflow, 

Her banquet now with tempting sweets ap- 
pears ; 

But, ah ! I wake to cjuaff the cup of wo, 
Drink deep of grief, and feast upon my tears. 



THE SMILE OF LOVE. 

Yes, there 's a light whose effulgence can brighten 

Griefs gloomy aspect with sparkles of joy, 
Chase from the heart which its splendors enlighten 

Each sombre care that presumes to annoy. 
Pure are its rays, as the dawn's first reflection, 
Grateful as sunbeams when tempests are o'er, 
Oh 't is the smile of an artless affection, 
Beaming from eyes and a heart we adore. 
Dark fate may vainly lower, 
O'er hope's enamelled bower, 
The smile of affection each cloud will remove, 
That warm celestial ray melts cloudy care away, 
Earth has no charm like the sweet smile of love. 
6 



82 I HEARD A SWEET STRAIN. 

While through this life's dusky vale we are stray- 
ing, 
Pressed by misfortune, and harassed by fears, 
Sighing o'er pictures of fancy, decaying — 

Sprinkling our pathway w T ith unheeded tears, 
Be but the lustre of love's radiations 

Shed o'er the scene, and its terrors will cease, 
Sighs will be changed into joy's aspirations, 
Tears be converted to dew-drops of peace. 
Bright beam of heavenly bliss ! 
Earth has no charm like this, 
'T is the reflection of light from above : 
When first we feel the ray, how sweet the pulses 
play! 
Earth has no charm like the sweet smile of love. 



I HEARD A SWEET STRAIN. 

I heard a sweet strain in the grove, 

And listened with breathless delight : 
" As pensive I thought on my love, 

" The moon on the mountain shone bright.' 
When torn from the arms of her swain, 

In circles of splendor to move, 
Sweet Fatima thus would complain, 

As pensive she thought on her love. 



HARRIET'S" FAVORITE POEMS. 83 

A palace for her had no charms, 

Unshared by the youth she adored ; 
But pressed in her loved Selim's arms, 

A cottage true bliss could afford. 
Then should fickle Fortune ordain, 

Your Selim from hence to remove, 
Will you, while you warble that strain, 

Bestow a fond thought on your love ? 

Some seraph will waft me the sound, 

And whisper the joy to my heart ; 
Though absence must cruelly wound, 

I '11 listen, forgetting its smart. 
Then grant that such joy I may find, 

Should fate ever tear me from thee ; 
For me let the strain be designed — 

Be Fatima only to me. 



HARRIET'S FAVORITE POEMS. 

When I survey my Harriet's speaking face, 
The smiles that light, the tears that fill her eyes, 

The frown of anger, or the rose's grace, 
I view the Seasons in succession rise. 

When a glance of affection her optics impart, 

The Pleasures of Hope are alive in my heart. 



84 HARRIET'S FAVORITE POEMS. 

Lost in the theme, while bending o'er her lyre, 
She wakes the tones which fascinate the soul, 

I view the Minstrd that I most admire, 
And list in rapture while her numbers roll. 

When, absent, I yield to reflection's sweet power, 

The Pleasures of Memory shorten the hour. 

If she, with fondness, chide my ardent kiss, 
And, with a soft'ning smile, forbearance ask, 

Or bid me, with a frown, forego the bliss, 
I bow submission, but neglect the Task. 

For should she condemn me the bliss to forego, 

In the Grave would I seek for an end of my wo. 

When Fancy through her own creation strays, 
To promised joy delighting still to cling, 

From her alone, my glowing bosom says, 
The Pleasures of Imagination spring. 

But when Curiosity rises to vex, 

Then Paradise Lost I impute to the sex. 

I told her thus — when, in her snowy arms, 
My yielding form the angel gently strained. 

And I, bewildered with a maze of charms, 
Sighed in her ear — 't is Paradise Regained ! 

Retired from elysium, the scene to retrace, 

My Night Thoughts re-pictured the tender em- 
brace. 



MABELLA. 85 



MABELLA. 

The world is no longer the desert I deemed it, 

While clouds of affliction had veiled it in gloom, 
For the promise of Hope — though I lightly es- 
teemed it, 
For once has been faithful, and dressed it in 
bloom. 
The eye of pure friendship is lighted to bless me, 
And Love — Oh the truest of hearts is my own ; 
E'en Fame grows propitious, and deigns to caress 
me, 
All smile on the minstrel, but Fortune alone. 

Pure friendship — it beams from the eye of Gla- 
bella, 

The angel of mercy, and daughter of song ; 
It lights up a zenith so brilliantly stellar, 

I spurn the dull planet to which I belong. 
But, ah ! should a cloud rise again to obscure it, 

Exhaled in the malice of Calumny's breath, 
The sensitive pulse of my heart would endure it 

A moment — and then find a refuge in death. 



86 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 



THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 

Embarked on the ocean of life, 

I steered for the haven of bliss ; 
But through passion's tempestuous strife, 

My reckoning was ever a-miss. 
Near Pleasure's enchanted domain 

I plunged in a whirlpool of care, 
Encountered the breakers of pain, 

And struck on the rocks of despair. 

Afloat and refitted once more, 

The chart of experience my guide, 
Hope points to the far-distant shore, 

Her smile bids the tempest subside. 
No breakers or quicksands I fear, 

While Honor stands firm at the helm ; 
By the compass of reason I '11 steer 

To Joy's delectable realm. 

Stern Yirtue the port may blockade, 
Yet Hymen will sanction my right, 

And his torch, like a j)liaros, shall aid 
To moor in the stream of delight. 



THE GAMUT. 87 

Then, then, may the genius of Love 

An eternal embargo declare ; 
I '11 never evade it, by Jove ! 

Nor traffic in contraband ware. 



THE GAMUT. 

The demon care constrained to smile, 

When matchless Ida sings, 
Repents that he my lyre should spoil, 

And gives me back its striugs ; 
So Orpheus' lay (as poets dreamed) 

With like resistless spell, 
Subdued the Fates, and thus redeemed 

Eurydice from hell. 

Once more I '11 tune this shell so dear, 

And stretch its wires again, 
Till A awake with accents clear, 

And breathing B complain. 
The C shall sound serene and free, 

The D with danger toy, 
While fiery, wild, erratic E, 

Shall light the torch of joy. 

The F give love and feeling scope, 
But G with grief shall wail, 



88 TO HARRIET. 

For H, the aspirate of hope, 
Comes not within the scale. 

'Tis done ! — my lyre shall wake again, 
While lovely Ida sings, 

For 't was her sweet resistless strain 
Redeemed the minstrel's strings. 



TO HARRIET. 

I owx I chid the plaintive strain, 
Nor wished the muse to weep ; 

But I recall a thought so vain, 
If Harriet's lyre must sleep. 

What though its tones are sorrow's sighs, 
T is bliss those tones to hear ; 

And should they drown the listener's eyes, 

They still would charm his ear. 

Then, Harriet, tune thy " simple lyre," 

And sing of blessings fled, 
While such ecstatic joys its wire 

On other hearts can shed. 
Yes, still with sorrow's lay alarm, 

Be Penserosa still, 
For if thy tones of grief thus charm, 

Thy notes of joy would kill. 



AND MAY I HOPE? 89 



AND MAY I HOPE ? 

And may I hope ? thou kind one, oh ! 

Can joy so great be mine ? 
I 'd pass a thousand years of wo, 
Nor think the minutes travelled slow, 

Might I, at last, be thine. 

And may I hope ? — What rapture waits 

On that auspicious word ! 
Now do your worst, ye envious fates, 
The sentence which my soul elates, 

Attesting angels heard. 

And may I hope ? — Then I am blest, 

That word expels despair, 
Removes each sorrow from my breast, 
With every doubt that dare molest, 

And plants an Eden there. 

And may I hope ? — Then fancy may 

Foretaste the nuptial kiss, 
In promised rapture revel gay, 
An antepast of that sweet day, 

Which consummates my bliss. 



90 TO CAROLINE. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Though thousand gems, of dazzling ray, 
Will glow and sparkle through the day, 
The diamond only has the power 
To shine in midnight's darkest hour ; 
So hearts that bask in beauty's smile, 
With borrowed ray may glow awhile, 
But mine, dear girl, is warm and bright, 
Though absence shroud the gem in night. 

Yes, absence is affection's test, 
I feel the truth within my breast ; 
For every hour and every mile, 
That bars me from thy cheering smile, 
Imparts new ardor to the flame, 
That warms and animates my frame ; 
But ere it too intensely burn, 
In pity, love, return ! — return. 



WE ARE OXE. 91 



WE ARE ONE. 

Oh, we are one, and who presumes 

To sever hearts like ours, 
Would scatter frosts where Eden blooms, 

And wither all its flowers ; 
But should no bands unite our hands, 

Till weary life be done, 
The ties which join this heart to thine, 

Will ever make us one. 

Yes, pride and rank may sever hands, 

But can not change the heart, 
Nor polar snows, nor Afric's sands, 

Congenial spirits part. 
Our souls shall meet, in union sweet, 

Though seas between us run, 
Till pride relents, and fate consents, 

To make us truly one. 



RETURNING HOME. 



RETURNING HOME. 

No longer shall fortune be whelmed with invec- 
tive, 
If my journey the goddess but bless with her 
smile ; 
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective 
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil. 

Ah ! still on my vision the object increases ! 

The cottage of peace and affection I spy ! 
Hope smiles, as my bosom, unconscious, releases 

The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh. 

Now, now I am blest ! — But, ah ! language it 
fails me, 
No pencil can paint love's ecstatic alarms : 
'Tis she that approaches — 'tis Catharine hails 
me, 
She gazes ! she smiles ! — I am pressed in her 
arms. 



BANKRUPTCY OF THE HEART. 93 



BANKRUPTCY OF THE HEART. 

Let infamy cover the dastard, that meanly 

Can sport with the peace of an innocent maid, 
For there is no pang which the heart feels so 
keenly 
As finding its confidence basely betrayed. 
No power can retrive such a wide desolation, 
As spreads o'er the face of the mental creation, 
When once a sincere trusting heart's adoration 
Has been with a cold-blooded treason repaid. 

For woman, dear woman, ne'er traffics by measure, 
But risks her whole heart, without counting 
the cost ; 
And if the dear youth whom she trusts with the 
treasure 
Be shipwrecked, or faithless, her capital's lost. 
For all she was worth, was her stock of affection, 
And bankruptcy follows, with sad retrospection, 
And nothing can ever remove the dejection 
That preys on a bosom whose prospects are 
crossed. 



94 A NUPTIAL SONG. 



A NUPTIAL SONG. 

Oh blest is the festival hallowed by duty, 

The banquet which Hymen and Cupid supply, 
The goblet which borrows new lustre from beauty, 

Its tints from her lip, and its light from her eye. 
Then join in our revels, partake of our pleasures, 

For Hymen and Love here in union preside, 
While Music awakens her light-footed measures, 

To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride. 

"While a spot in the desert of life is thus blooming, 

And soft sighs of rapture are fanning its bowers, 
While the sunbeams of mirth are its vistas illu- 
ming, 

And bright tears of ecstacy water the flowers — 
Oh join in our revels, partake of our pleasures, 

For Hymen and Love here in union preside, 
While Music awakens her light-footed measures, 

To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride. 

Long life to their pleasures, till raptures supernal, 
Immortal as truth, in their bosoms shall rise, 

For the bliss of true conjugal love is eternal, 
It blossoms on earth but to bloom in the skies. 



THE WIDOWED IVY. 95 

Then join in our revels, partake of our pleasures. 

For Hymen and Love here in union preside, 
While Music awakens her light-footed measures, 

To welcome the guests, and to honor the bride. 



THE WIDOWED IVY. 

I marked of late, in verdant pride, 

The iv) T , fondly clinging 
To the tall oak's majestic side, 
On whose green branches, spreading wide, 

A w r oodland choir was singing. 
But soon w r as hushed the sylvan lay, 

The lightning's bolt invaded ; 
The oak was shivered in the fray, 
The widow r ed ivy lost its stay, 

And all its verdure faded. 

'Tis thus the fond, confiding heart 

On manly faith reposes, 
While the sweet smiles of Hope impart 
Such hues to life's prospective chart 

As deck the scene in roses. 
But, ah ! such sweets too soon decay, 

By sorrow's storm invaded ; 



96 CHRIS12IAS GAMBOLS. 

If faithless man our hopes betray, 
The widowed heart will lose its stay, 
And all its joys be faded. 



CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS. 

Hail the season of joy and festivity, 

Social pleasures and innocent mirth, 
Consecrated by Mercy's Nativity, 

Bliss angelical granted to earth ! 
Tempests of winter the forests may splinter, 

But never can stint or embitter our cheer, 
While love's soft wishes still sweeten our dishes, 

On merry Christmas and happy New Year. 

Hark ! the merry bells, chiming from Trinity, 

Charm the ear with their musical din, 
Telling all, throughout the vicinity, 

Holyday gambols are now to begin : 
Friends and relations, with fond salutations, 

And warm gratulations, together appear ; 
While lovers and misses, with holyday kisses, 

Greet merry Christmas and happy New Year. 

Gratitude, united with piety, 

Bids each bosom with rapture to glow, 



CHRISTMAS GAMBOLS. 97 

Pleasures, tempered with cheerful sobriety, 
11 Light up smiles in the aspect of wo :" 

Sires and mothers, meel Bisters and brothers, 
And mingle with others, in festival cheer : 

And friends, long parted, assemble, light-hearted 
On merry Christmas and happy Xew Year. 

Now commences the infantile revelry, 

Happy urchins the story believe, 
That Santa Claus, since ages of chivalry, 

Visits the nursery on holyday eve. 
Socks, intended for gifts, are suspended, 

And mystic rites blended, the fancy to cheer, 
While sweet snap-dragon, exhausts the full flagon, 

Each merry Christmas and happy Xew Year. 

Then hail the season of joy and festivity, 

Social pleasures, and innocent mirth ! 
Which smooths the path of age's declivity, 

And gives to infancy Eden on earth ; 
When Plenty her treasure bestows without meas- 
ure, 

And innocent Pleasure pursues her career ; 
While Love's soft wishes still sweeten our dishes, 

On merry Christmas and happy Xew Year. 
7 



98 land's end. 



LAND'S END. 

The gale was propitious, all canvass was spread, 

As swift through the water we glided, 
The tear-drop yet glistened which friendship had 
shed, 

Though the pang whence it sprang had subsided. 
Fast faded in distance each object we knew, 

As the shores which we loved were retiring, 
And the last grateful object which lingered in 
view, 

Was the beacon on land's end aspiring. 

Ah ! here, I exclaimed, is an emblem of life, 

For ? t is but a turbulent ocean, 
Where passion with reason is ever at strife, 

While our frail little barks are in motion. 
The haven of infancy, calm and serene, 

We leave in the distance retiring, 
While memory lingers, to gaze on some scene, 

Like the beacon on land's end aspiring. 

Oh may I be careful to steer by that chart 
Which Wisdom in mercy has given, 



I 



THE TEAK OF GRATITUDE. 99 

And true, like the needle, this tremulous heart 
Be constantly pointing to heaven ; - 

Thus safety with tempests and billows I ? 11 cope, 
And find (when at last they 're subsiding) 

On the land's end of life is a beacon of hope, 
To the harbor of happiness guiding. 



THE TEAR OF GRATITUDE. 

There is a gem more pearly bright, 

More dear to Mercy's eye, 
Than love's sweet star, whose mellow light 

First cheers the evening sky ; 
A liquid pearl, that glitters where 

Xo sorrows now intrude, 
A richer gem than monarchs wear, 

The tear of gratitude. 

But ne'er shall narrow love of self, 

Invite this tribute forth, 
Xor can the sordid slave of pelf 

Appreciate its worth ; 
But ye who sooth the widow's wo, 

And give the orphan food, 
For you this liquid pearl shall flow, 

The tear of gratitude. 



100 SPRING AND AUTUMN. 

Ye, who but slake an infant's thirst, 

In Heavenly Mercy's name, 
Or proffer penury a crust, 

The sweet reward can claim. 
Then as ye rove life's sunny banks, 

With sweetest flowerets strewed, 
Still may you claim the widow's thanks, 

The orphan's gratitude. 



SPRING AND AUTUMN. 

How pleasing, how lovely appears 
Sweet infancy, sportive and gay ; 

Its prattle, its smiles, and its tears, 
Like spring, or the dawning of day ! 

But manhood ? s the season designed 
For wisdom, for works, and for use ; 

To ripen the fruits of the mind, 

Which the seeds sown in childhood produce. 



i 



TO ADELAIDE FELICITY 101 



TO ADELAIDE FELICITY. 

Before thy infant lips could frame, 
With lisping tone, a parent's name ; 
When first a smile of playful grace 
Was seen upon thy cherub face ; 
While dandled on thy mother's knee — 
Think'st thou that smile was dear to me ? 
T was, Adelaide — Felicity. 

When thou, at last, couldst run alone, 
And lisp our names with dulcet tone ; 
And like the lamb, in frolic play, 
Didst wile the laughing hours away; 
Thy father's bosom throbbed with glee, 
While love maternal guarded thee, 
Twas, Adelaide — Felicity. 

But ah ! how faint a joy was this, 
Compared with our superior bliss, 
When, budding in the spring of youth, 
Replete with virtue, love, and truth, 
And every grace we wished to see, 
Thy doting parents gazed on thee — 
'Twas, Adelaide — Felicitv. 



102 TO MISS SARAH HOWARD. 

And when with cultivated mind, 

By knowledge stored, by art refined, 

Thy faithful heart, thy hand, thy will, 

Were pledged to one who holds them still, 

One who is worthy even thee, 

What think you, owed the youth to me ? 

'T was, Adelaide — Felicity. 

And now, thy lengthened absence o'er, 
I hold thee in my arms once more, 
And kiss the pearls of joy away, 
And see the smiles of rapture play 
About the lips from sorrow free, 
What, thinkst thou, calls this tear from me ? 
>T is, Adelaide — Felicity. 



TO MISS SARAH HOWARD. 

I asked the muse to breathe a name 

Which Mercy loved the dearest : 
The brightest on the roll of fame, 

To perfect worth the nearest ; 
Whose heart would bleed, but never shrink, 

When gloom and danger lowered, 
Who dared destruction's awful brink, 
To save the wretch about to sink — 

She smiled and whispered — " Howard.'* 



THE KALEIDOSCOPE. 103 

I asked her then to name a fair, 
Whose thousand traits of beauty, 

Derive the sweetest grace they wear 
From virtue, love, and duty : 

Who, when her parents helpless lay, 
* By fell disease overpowered, 

With tearless, sleepless eye, would stay 

To watch their couches, night and day, 

The pangs of sickness to allay — 

The muse still whispered — " Howard." 



THE KALEIDOSCOPE. 

Just like Hope, this magic toy 
Shows a thousand forms of joy, 
Of richest shape and sweetest hue, 
For ever varying — ever new, 
Just like Hope. 

Innocence, a playful child, 
Raised the tube, and looked, and smiled, 
And still he gazed, with rapture wild, 
For every change his heart beguiled, 
Just like Hope. 

Sage Experience chanced to pass, 
Seized the toy, and broke the glass, 



104 THE IMPRISONED DEBTOR. 

And soon convinced the weeping boy 
How false was bis illusive joy, 
Just like Hope. 

Still the silly child believed 
That his loss would be retrieved, 
Another tried, and still he grieved, 
For every flattering tube deceived, 
Just like Hope. 

Just like Hope, this magic toy 
Shows a thousand forms of joy, 
Of richest shape and sweetest hue, 
For ever varying — ever new, 
Just like Hope- 



THE IMPRISONED DEBTOR. 

The slave inhales the morning's healthful breeze, 
And gambols gayly o'er the verdant plain ; 

But ah ! the debtor tastes no joys like these, 
But breathes the fetid atmosphere of pain. 

The slave has friends — a wife and children dear, 
Whose fond caresses every grief dispel ; 

But ah ! no friend — no wife or child is near, 
To bless the debtor's solitary cell. 



THK FLOWERS OF LIFE. 105 

Near the sad couch on which bis Emma weeps, 
Her sickly fancy paints his wasting frame ; 

And from the cradle where her infant sleeps, 
Unconscious lips pronounce a father's name. 

Alas, poor babe ! thy father hears thee not ; 

In the cold jail his lonely lamp he trims, 
To wake and muse upon our hapless lot, 

The chains of avarice clanking on his limbs. 

But though, my child, our eyes dissolve in showers, 
Our cheeks are strangers to the blush of shame, 

For oh ! one boast, one legacy is ours — 
His spotless honor and unblemished fame. 



THE FLOWERS OF LIFE. 

In the journey of life, let us scorn to complain of 
The trifling impediments found in the road ; 

The worst I encounter I laugh at the pain of, 
For sweet-smiling cheerfulness lightens the load. 

If I find not a rose, I indulge not in sorrow, 
But pluck with contentment a daisy to-day ; 

Nay, even a sprig will feed hope for to-morrow, 
The humblest that nods to the zephyrs of May. 



106 THE FLOWERS OF LIFE. 

Let others dispute, I '11 avoid their dissention, 
Religious, political, moral, or such ; 

For the lily of peace thus escapes their attention, 
The sweet bud of pleasure which blooms at my 
touch. 

The blossoms of friendship, surviving mortality, 
I '11 carefully cherish and wear in my breast ; 

Though its picture may boast brighter hues than 
reality, 
Its fragrance directs me, when doubtful the test. 

The spirit of feeling, the soul of affection, 
Wildly ardent in rapture, and melting in wo, 

Whatever its image, attire, or complexion, 
With mine shall commingle in sympathy's glow. 

I ask not his birthplace, whatever the region, 
Hot, temperate, frigid — despotic or free ; 

I ask not his politics, creed, or religion, 

A Turk, Jew or Christian — he 's still dear to 
me. 

But ah ! there 's a flower, which, teeming with 
nectar, 

Beneath its fair aspect screen's misery's dart, 
So artfully veiled that it mocks a detect er, 

Till, pressed to the bosom, it pierces the heart. 






THE FLOWEKS OF LIFF. 107 

But still, to a bosom susceptibly placid, 

The anguish of love will but heighten the joy; 

As the bev'rage uniting a sweet with an acid, 
Is grateful, when nectar on tempered would cloy. 

The bramble of avarice others may nourish, 
Exhausting life's soil of its virtues and strength ; 

I'll stray where the plants of beneficence flourish, 
And the generous vine winds its serpentine 
length. 

Let misers pursue their mean sordid employment, 
And hoard up their treasures for life's latest 
scenes ; 

I '11 waste not the moments allowed for enjoyment, 
Nor squander the season in gaining the means. 

Our object is happiness — ne'er could we miss it, 
In life's varied path, if the talent were ours 

From all we encounter some good to elicit, 
As bees gather sweets from the meanest of 
flowers. 

Then pluck every blossom of happiness blooming ; 
Leave birds of contention, and play with the 
dove ; 
And our path, soon the flush of enchantment as- 
suming, 
Will glow, an elysium of pleasure and love. 



108 EDWIN DELISLE. 



EDWIN DELISLE. 

The battle was ended, whose direful commotion 

Gave tyrants the victims unclaimed by the wave, 
And the last ray of Phoebus illumined the ocean, 

As it shot o'er the land of the ill-fated brave. 
The western breeze wafted the ship o'er the main, 

Far, far from their country and liberty's smile ; 
Each captive enshackled with tyranny's chain, 

The noblest of whom was young Edwin Delisle. 

Apart from his comrades, his manly breast bleed- 
ing 

With anguish too piercing for nature to bear, 
Distracted he viewed his dear country receding, 

And bade it adieu in a tone of despair : 
" Oh region of happiness, freedom, and peace ! 

Columbia, adieu ! not for Edwin you smile, 
For soon, with his sorrows, existence must cease, 

For rent is the heart of poor Edwin Delisle. 

" Eliza ! my angel ! fate dooms us to sever, 
Though brought to the climate that fosters thy 
charms ; 



FRIENDSHIP. 109 

III sight of my country, I lose it for ever, 

In view of my love, I am torn from her arms | 

Three times have the seasons their circle fulfilled. 
Since Edwin was blest with affection's sweet 
smile, 

Since, pressed to his bosom, Eliza be held, 
As she sighed a farewell to her Edwin Delisle. 

"'Three years shall restore me/ I cried, as we 
parted ; 
The term has expired, and my eyes caught the 
shore ; 
Hope flatter'd, then left to despair, broken-hearted, 
The wretch for whom freedom and joy are no 
more. 
The shadows of eve shroud thy land from my view, 
But ah ! there 's another where joys ever smile ! 
God of mercy, forgive me! — Eliza, adieu!" 
He plunged — and the waves covered Edwin 
Delisle. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

What power can prop a sinking soul, 

Oppressed with woes and sick of grief, 
Bid the warm tear forbear to roll, 
Despair's heart-rending sigh control, 

And whisper sweet relief? 



110 FRIENDS HIT. 

Friendship ! sweet balm for sorrow's smart, 

In thee the soothing power is found, 
To heal the lacerated heart, 
Extract affliction's venomed dart, 
And close the bleeding wound. 

When pierced by griefs chill tempest through, 

The tendril bends beneath its power, 
Thou canst the broken plant renew : 
Thy sacred tear, like heavenly dew, 
Revives the drooping flower. 

If fortune frown — if health depart, 
Or death divide the tenderest tie, 

Friendship can raise the sinking heart, 

A glow of real joy impart, 
And wipe the tearful eye. 

If foes without attack our name, 

Or foes within assault our peace, 
Then friendship's pure celestial flame, 
Can sooth the mind — defend our fame, 
And bid assailants cease. 

Come, then, sweet power, of source divine, 

For ever glow within my breast ; 
My earliest friend be ever mine, 
One link our hearts in union join, 
To make each other blest. 



HIBERNIANS TEARS. 1 1 1 



HIBERNIAN TEARS. 

Hibernians tears for ever flow, 

Her harp in silence slumbers ; 
Her bards the patriot song forego, 

Nor dare to breathe its numbers. 
No more they bid the swelling tone 

In freedom's cause awaken ; 
Those happy days of bliss are flown, 

And Erin weeps, forsaken ! 

But though her sons in exile roam, 

They sleep on freedom's pillow ; 
And Erin's daughters find a home 

Beyond the western billow. 
There shall they breathe the glowing strain, 

To joy's ecstatic numbers ; 
There Erin's harp shall wake again, 

In rapture, from its slumbers. 



112 CALUMNY. 



CALUMNY. 

Ah, what avails the shield of truth, 
The charm of virtue, beauty, youth, 
Against that fiend deformed, uncouth, 

Whose wounds no lenient balm can close ? 
Assailed by Slander's venomed tooth, 
The sensate mind must droop, forsooth, 

And wither like a cankered rose. 
Yes, they who ever felt the pang 
Of Calumny's inveterate fang, 
Must own that minstrel never sang, 
Of all the woes from guilt that sprang, 

Of deeper, dreader, deadlier foes. 

Oh thou, who hast been thus betrayed 
By secret foes, in ambush laid, 
To plot and stab beneath the shade ; 
Whose viewless shafts have mocked the aid 
Of Virtue's buckler to evade 

The cruel, pointed, venomed barb — 
Know, hapless wretch ! whoe'er thou be, 
There is between thyself and me 
A sighing chord of sympathy ; 



OH TRUST NOT HOPE. 113 

For 1 have also felt, like thee, 
The cureless wounds of Calumny, 
Who kissed and stabbed — for he — for he 
Had stolen honest Friendship's garb. 

But what, alas, avails complaint ? 
Be man more holy than a saint, 
Be lovely woman " chaste as snow 
And pure as ice," they still must know 
The keenest pang of human wo. 

The rankling wound of Calumny. 
But hear a Saviour's accents mild, 
" The persecuted and reviled 

Are blessed," saith the Lord. 
Then still, in conscious virtue clad, 
4 ' Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, 

For great is your reward." 



OH TRUST NOT HOPE. 

Oh trust not faithless Hope too far, 
Lest disappointment's venomed dart 

Should all thy fairest prospects mar, 
And lacerate thy constant heart ; 

For I have trusted in her smile, 
Nor heard the distant thunder roll, 
8 



114 AN IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH. 

Nor saw the cloud approach the while, 

Whose lightnings since have pierced my soul. 

Oh trust not, then, the smile of hope, 

A hurricane succeeds the calm, 
E'en while we stroll some verdant slope 

Where flow'rets freight the breeze with balm — 
Ere we can say "the scene is sweet," 

'T is blasted by some demon's breath ; 
Then trust not, trust not, I entreat, 

The treacherous smile that lures to death. 



AN IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH. 

All hues become a pretty face, 
For beauty needs no foreign grace ; 
A flower, or anything, in truth, 
Will ornament the brow of youth, 
While sparkling gems may vainly shine 
Where age and ugliness combine. 

Oh then, be wise, ye gentle fair, 
And all the ornaments you wear 
From taste, instead of wealth, obtain, 
Nor longer court your glass in vain. 



AN DOTATION FROM THE FRENCH. 115 

The Prize of Beauty (once decreed, 
To Paphian Venus, as we read) 
Was not awarded to the fair 
For any brilliants in her hair. 

No, 't was her native charms acquired 
The prize her rivals so desired ; 
Her face, her neck, her bosom, waist, 
Her easy negligence and taste, 
Her attitude, her hair, her eyes — 
With these the goddess won the prize. 

Oh then, ye fair, who seek to please, 
Cherish simplicity and ease ; 
With modest taste, give no occasion 
To quote Apelles' observation.* 
Remember, that a grace denied, 
Was by a bauble ne'er supplied. 

* An ignorant painter having decorated the portrait of Helen 
with trinkets, Apelles observed, that the picture was "rich in 
ornaments, but poor in beauty," and that the " artist had embel- 
lished her with jewels, because he had not abilities to paint her 
beautiful." 



116 THE DEAF AND DUMB, 



THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

The ills which call for pity's tear, 

Were all in mercy given ; 
The fettered tongue, obstructed ear, 
And every wo we suffer here, 

Invite us back to Heaven. 

But he who binds the bleeding heart 

By sorrow's tempest riven, 
Whose kindness dries the tears that start, 
Performs a man's, an angel's part, 

And aids the plan of Heaven. 

Then see the tear from misery's cheek, 

By love and genius driven ! 
Behold ! they gain the end they seek ! 
The deaf can hear ! the dumb can speak ! 

And praise approving Heaven. 

And now a bright and glorious morn 

Succeeds a dusky even ; 
The dazzled soul, but newly born, 
In wonder lost, salutes the dawn, 

And hails the sun of heaven. 



BEAUTY, SWEET MYSTERIOUS POWER. 117 



BEAUTY, SWEET MYSTERIOUS POWER. 

Beauty, sweet mysterious power, 
Secret spring of all that moves, 

Goddess of the Paphian bower, 
Mother of the infant loves ; 

Which can make the wicked good, 

Savage sentiments abolish, 
Melt the hard, refine the rude, 

Teach the clown a courtier's polish ; 

Which can make the simple wise, 
Or deprive the wise of reason ; 

Bid the statesman sink or rise, 
Urge to loyalty or treason : — 

Now exciting modest fear, 

Now with lawless rudeness firing ; 

Prompting to be faithless here, 
There with constancy inspiring. 

'T is the power that banes or blesses ; 

Where shall we its image find ? 
'T is the nymph whose eye expresses 

Charms belonging to the mind. 



118 THE MINSTREL. 



THE MINSTREL. 

How happy is the minstrel's lot, 

Whose song each care beguiles ; 
The frowns of fortune fright him not, 

Nor does he court her smiles. 
Contented with his tuneful lyre, 

His art can yield the rest ; 
He pours his soul along the wire, 

And rapture fires his breast. 

He envies not the power of kings, 

With all their glittering toys ; 
The tones that warble from his strings 

Impart sublimer joys. 
He builds a world of airy bliss, 

Where love erects his throne ; 
And though his fancy frame the kiss, 

Its sweets are all his own. 

What though no wealth his song repays, 

Xor laurels deck his lyre ; 
The glow he catches from its lays 

Is bliss supremely higher. 



A DUETT. 119 

What though his fairy pleasures seem 

Illusion's shapeless toys — 
He would not lose so sweet a dream 

For all your waking joys. 



A DUETT 

BOTH. 

Now the torch of rapture burns, 
Sorrows fly, and joy returns ; 
Hope, in blushing garlands drest, 
Comes again, a welcome guest. 

SHE. 

So the gloomy shades of night 

HE. 

Fade before the dawn of light ; 

SHE. 

Till Aurora's blushing ray 

BOTH. 

Kindle darkness into day. 



120 HARLEM MARY. 



CONFIDING WOMAN. 

Confiding woman yields her heart 

Without a reservation, 
While man can only love by art, 

And sordid calculation. 

Xo earthly ill can him annoy, 
But she would gladly bear it, 

Nor has the world for her a joy, 
Unless her lover share it. 



HARLEM MAEY. 

They sing of blue-eyed Mary, 

Who gathered flowers to sell, 
But there's a sweeter fairy, 

In Harlem's flowery dell ; 
Whose violets, pinks, and roses, 

Display a richer bloom, 
*T were bliss to gain such posies, 

And taste their rich perfume. 



THE BASHFUL LOVER. 121 

The violet's softest azure 

Is swimming in her eye ; 
The rose's vermeil treasure, 

On either cheek we spy ; 
The fragrant pink's carnation, 

Its nectar and perfume, 
In sweetest combination, 

Have dressed her lips in bloom. 

And she has learned to cherish 

A never-fading flower ; 
When pinks and roses perish 

'T will still adorn her bower ; 
Its tints will never vary, 

Its fragance ne'er depart, 
'T will always bloom with Mary, 

'T is planted in her heart. 



THE BASHFUL LOVER. 

When bashful Lubin sought my hand, 

My heart his suit approved, 
But, feigning not to understand, 

I listened still unmoved. 
For dim, I thought, must burn that flame, 

Which such a check could smother, 



122 THE NEEDLE. 

And sprightly girls are not to blame 
To spurn a bashful lover. 

Poor Lubin told a friend his case, 

Who soon his fears allayed, 
And bade him wear a bolder face — 

He listened, and obeyed. 
Returning soon, with altered mien, 

He might at once discover, 
That sprightly girls, of gay sixteen, 

Ne'er spurn a saucy lover. 



THE NEEDLE. 

The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling 

In waltz or cotillion — at whist or quadrille ; 
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling, 

Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill ; 
But give me the fair one, in country or city, 

Whose home and its duties are dear to her 
heart, 
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 

While plying the needle with exquisite art. 
The bright little needle— the swift-flying needle, 

The needle directed by beauty and art. 



William's grave. 123 

If Love have a potent, a magical token, 

A talisman, ever resistless and true — 
A charm that is never evaded or broken, 

A witchery certain the heart to subdue — 
T is this — and his armory never has furnished 

So keen and unerring, or polished a dart ; 
Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished, 

And oh ! it is certain of touching the heart. 

Be wise then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration 

By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; 
You never, whatever be your fortune or station, 

Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, 
As gayly convened at a work-covered table, 

Each cheerfully active and playing her part, 
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, 

And plying the needle with exquisite art. 



WILLIAM'S GRAVE. 

The death-bell tolled, and it fell on my ear, 

Like the knell of departed bliss, 
As I gazed in despair on William's bier, 
With eyes that were burning without a tear, 
To soften a pang like this. 



124 WILLIAM'S GRAVE. 

For William was all that I valued below, 

His bosom was honor's shrine, 
His hand to the needy was prompt to bestow, 
While he lighted up " smiles in the aspect of wo," 

And kindled new rapture in mine. 

But death was relentless, and William bowed 

To a sudden and early doom, 
No longer the life of the listening crowd, 
He lowly reclines in a coffin and shroud, 

And sleeps in the narrow tomb. 

They made him a bed in the cold, damp ground, 

Where they laid my love to rest, 
The sable-clad mourners stood silent around, 
And sighed in response to the murmuring sound 

Of the clods, as they fell on his breast. 

My heart was so full that I could not weep, 
With spasms I drew my breath, t 

My sobs were so low, and convulsively deep, 
That I hoped soon to share in my William's sleep, 
In the chilly embrace of death. 

From these widowed arms, my love was torn, 

When hope was revelling bright, 
And his spirit has passed the eternal bourne, 
While hapless Maria is left to mourn, 

Through sorrow's starless night. 



THIS LIFE IS NOT THE VALE OF WO. 1*25 

But morning will dawn, and I shall rise, 

When life's brittle cord shall sever ; 
In regions far brighter I '11 open my eyes, 
And meet my dear William above the skies, 
To part no more for ever. 



THIS LIFE IS NOT THE VALE OF WO. 

This life is not the vale of wo 

Which stoics paint in declamation, 
For countless blossoms round us glow 

Which breathe the sweetest exhalation. 
Then let 's enjoy our sunny hours, 

Xor mourn anticipated gloom, 
'Tis folly to neglect the flowers, 

Because they may not always bloom. 

Let fools for rank and honor seek, 

I envy not their elevation ; 
Ambition's path is wild and bleak, 

Content is in an humbler station. 
May sweet content, dear girl, be thine, 

Health, friendship, and a faithful lover, 
And never let the dove repine, 

Because the eagle soars above her. 



126 A TRIO. 



A TRIO. 

RONALD. 

Adieu to love, 'tis glory calls, 
I go to seek the post of danger, 

'Mid clashing blades and whizzing balls, 
My heart to peaceful thoughts a stranger. 

LOUISA. 

May heaven protect thee in the fight, 
I breathe the wish with pious fervor, 

ERNEST AND LOUISA. 

And may its choicest blessings light 
On thee, our generous, kind preserver. 

LOUISA. 

What e'er thy future fate may be, 

ERNEST AND LOUISA. 

Whatever ills beset thee, 

ALL. 

Oh, deign sometimes to think of me, 
Who never can forget thee. 



THE TOMB OF HENRY. 127 



THE TOMB OF HENRY. 

Where Hudson's murmuring billows 

Kiss Jersey's verdant shore, 
Beneath those spreading willows 

Sleeps Henry of the moor. 
The pride of all the plain 
Was Anna's chosen swain : 
But Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps 
Beneath the weeping-willow tree. 

They loved with pure affection, 
Their artless souls were true ; 

The promising connection 

Their friends with rapture view, 

And name the morn of May 

Their happy wedding day. 
But Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps 

Beneath the weeping-willow tree. 

They hail the rising morrow, 
Which dawns to see them blest ; 

But ah ! ere eve, what sorrow 
Fills Anna's lovely breast ! 



128 THE TOMB OF HENRY. 

She sees the Hudson's wave 
Become her Henry's grave ; 
And Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps 
Beneath the weeping-willow tree. 

She tears her flowing tresses, 
Invokes his parted breath, 

And with her wild caresses 
Invites him back from death ; 

But ah ! her lip's warm kiss 

Imparts no glow to his ! 
And Anna weeps, for Henry sleeps 

Beneath the weeping-willow tree. 

She sees beneath the willow 

Her lover laid to rest, 
The earth his nuptial pillow, 

And not her virgin breast. 
Around his verdant tomb 
The early daisies bloom ; 
There Anna weeps, there Henry sleeps 
Beneath the weeping-willow tree. 



YOU HESITATE OH THEN 'TIS YOU. 129 



NO MORE SHALL HOPE'S ILLUSIVE DREAM. 

No more shall hope's illusive dream, 
Nor wild ambition's idle scheme, 
With visions false distract my brain, 
Of promised good I ne'er obtain. 

But here in life's sequestered path, 
I '11 smile at fate, nor dread its wrath, 
And calmly look without a moan, 
On bliss that might have been my own. 



YOU HESITATE — OH THEN 'TIS YOU. 

You hesitate — Oh then 'tis you, 
To whom my grateful thanks are due ! 
Confess it then, for you alone 

So sensitively feeling, 
Could nobly act as you have done, 
The action still concealing. 
Yes, yes — 'tis plain — the truth I see, 
Confess the artifice to me. 
9 



130 A REQUEST. 

You '11 not confess, when I implore ! 
Then never seek to serve me more. 
I blushed not to accept the boon, 

So delicately tendered, 
The favor which you are so soon, 
Ashamed of having rendered. 
Yes, yes — 'tis plain — the truth I see, 
Ashamed of having rendered me. 



A REQUEST. 

Though milder skies allure thee hence, 

And smiling native scenes invite, 
Where fancy to thy view presents 

A glowing picture of delight. 
No flowery vales, nor verdant scenes, 

So sweet a fragrance can impart, 
As friendship's tender evergreens, 

Nourished by memory in the heart. 

In ours those plants shall ever bloom, 
Freshened by tear-drops of regret, 

While one sweet hope will light the gloom, 
The hope that thou wilt not forget. 



TO A LADY. 131 

But should new friends and joys efface, 
The forms of those thou leav'st behind, 

Oh let the humble lines I trace, 
Recall the picture to thy mind. 



TO A LADY. 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 

Among the flowers of sentiment 

Which form this bright boquet, 
The humble tribute I present 
May claim a place — for it is meant 

My friendship to portray. 
But be it not, I pray, united 

With hyacinth or yew, 
Emblems, alas ! of friendship slighted, 
Of pure affection unrequited, 

And cold indifference too. 

But let the offering bloom beside 

The muse's eglantine — 
Between the lalac's purple pride, 
And one more delicately dyed, 

The fragrant jessamine. 



132 DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM. 

For we, in these, the emblem trace, 

Of poesy and youth, 
And that inestimable grace 
Which guards the heart, and lights the face 

Of modesty and truth. 

The constant myrtle may be near, 

The timid violet too, 
The amaranth, to virtue dear, 
And the sweet rose, which all revere, 

Of thee, an emblem true. 
But let no cold narcissus bloom, 

Dear maid, to blight the rest ; 
For, ah ! self-love is sure to doom 
Our virtues to an early tomb, 

If cherish in the breast. 



DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM. 

And is my humble lyre to be 
The first that wakes a lay, 

To dedicate a book to thee, 

Designed for wit and poesy ? 
Dear lady I obey. 

For like this fair unsullied leaf, 
Was once thy infant mind ; 






ANSWER TO A LADY. 133 

Save when alternate joy and grief 
Flitted across, with stay so brief, 
They left no trace behind. 

But genius, wit, and taste refined, 

With knowledge, science, art, 
Saw the bright tablet of thy mind, 
A spotless blank, and all combined 

To fill so fair a chart. 
And long, I trust, this volume will 

Of thee an emblem prove ; 
While wit and taste its pages fill, 
Be every precept they instil 

Such as the virtuous love. 



ANSWER TO A LADY, 

WHO SENT HER ALBUM TO THE AUTHOR FOR A 
CONTRIBUTION. 

And dost thou then request a lay 

From one to thee unknown, 
One, who, without that kindling ray 
Which bright inspiring eyes convey, 

Could never wake a tone ? 



134 ANSWER TO A LADY. 

Alas ! the heartless lines I trace 

Will have no charm for thee ; 
For if Peru's untutored race, 
Had never seen their god's bright face, 

How cold their prayers would be ! 

? Tis true that Fame, in brightest dyes, 

Her magic pencil dips, 
To paint the mental charms I prize, 
Reflected from thy sparkling eyes, 

Or warbled from thy lips. 

But ah ! however bright we own 

The portrait all admire, 
The fair original alone 
Could waken feeling's purest tone 

From my neglected lyre. 

When thou wouldst catch the dewdrops, shook 

From Fancy's glittering w r ing, 
Let thy own hand present the book, 
And with thy own bewitching look, 

Inspire the bard to sing. 



OH WHAT IS VIRTUE? 135 



OH WHAT IS VIRTUE? 

TO A LADY. 

Oh what is virtue ? — 't is to keep 

Each passion under strict control, 
Nor let a wily tempter creep 

Into the garden of the soul ; 
It is to conquer selfish pride, 

And each inordinate desire, 
To take the Scriptures for our guide, 

And speak and act as they require. 

Oh what is virtue ; — ? t is to love 

Beyond all things in time and space, 
Him who descended from above, 

To save from death our rebel race ; 
It is to love the words he spake, 

Which none on earth e'er spake before* 
His burden and his yoke to take, 

And bear them meekly as he bore. 

Oh what is virtue ? — 't is to prize 
Another's interest as our own ; 



136 RONDEAU. 

In joy or grief to sympathize, 

For bliss received, or pleasures flown. 

It is to keep the mind and heart, 
From every selfish motive free ; 

To walk by Truth's unerring chart — 
It is, in short, to be like thee. 



RONDEAU. 

Whatever fleeting pleasure, 

In riches we discover, 
Oh they Ve a double measure, 

Who share it with a lover. 

The heart which worships sordid pelf, 

True bliss can never prove, 
Its wishes centre all in self, 

The deadliest foe to love. 

Whatever fleeting pleasure, &c. 

A generous act itself repays, 

One beam of joy impart, 
And millions of reflected rays 

Will light the giver's heart. 

Whatever fleeting pleasure, &c. 



TO MARY. 137 



TO MARY. 

I fondly thought to call thee mine, 

But we are doomed to sever ; 
Then may the purest joys be thine, 
If thou art blest, I ; ll not repine, 
Though lost to me for ever. 

May he who holds thy plighted vow, 

Screen thee from every sorrow ; 
May smiles of pleasure light thy brow, 
And joy's gay wreath that decks it now, 
Be fresher still to-morrow. 

Whate'er my anguish, be thou blest, 
With love and truth to guide thee, 
Approved, adored, beloved, caressed, 
No pang of sorrow in thy breast, 
No earthly joy denied thee. 



138 AAV AY WITH CARE AND SORROW. 



AWAY WITH CAKE AND SORROW. 

A DUETT. 

HE. 

Away with care and sorrow, 

Let laughing hopes beguile, 
For every coming morrow 

May wear a brighter smile ; 
While Love, in playful measure, 

With chords that never jar, 
Awakes the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar. 

SHE. 

But hopes are quickly blighted, 

For love is apt to fly ; 
And hearts to-day delighted, 

To-morrow often sigh : 
Then seize the fleeting treasure, 

'T is like a shooting star, 
And wakes the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar. 



AWAV WITH CARE AND SORROW. 139 

BOTH. 

If hope is but a bubble, 

T is still a pleasing toy, 
And every passing trouble, 

But gives a zest to joy ; 
When Love, in playful measure, 

And chords that never jar, 
Awakes the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar. 

HE. 

What though a cloud of sadness 

May flit across the mind, 
A thousand beams of gladness 

Are still concealed behind ; 
And Joy, in field of azure, 

Again shall light his star, 
And wakes the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar. 

SHE. 

But should a night of sorrow, 

AY hen dewy eyes are damp, 
Before the coming morrow, 

Extinguish Cupid's lamp ; 
Could aught return the treasure, 

When peace is fled afar, 
Or wake the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar ? 



140 AWAY WITH CARE AND SORROW. 
BOTH. 

Though showers of grief should dim it, 

The torch of love will burn ; 
For tenderness shall trim it, 

Till smiling Peace return ; 
When Love, in playful measure, 

With chords that never jar, 
Shall wake the notes of pleasure, 

Along the sweet guitar. 

HE. 

A beamy smile of gladness, 

Like that which greets me now, 
Could chase the clouds of sadness : 

From every manly brow. 
It lights the eye of azure, 

Like Love's delicious star, 
And wakes the notes of pleasure, 

Along the sweet guitar. 

SHE. 

When Music's notes are sounding, 

'Tis joy that lights the eye ; 
For hearts are gayly bounding, 

So sweet the minutes fly ; 
While Hope, in playful measure, 

With chords that never jar, 
Awakes the notes of pleasure 

Along the sweet guitar. 



WRITTEN IN MY NIECE'S ALBUM. 141 

BOTH. 

Then hence with care and sorrow, 

Let laughing hopes beguile, 
For every coming morrow, 

May wear a brighter smile; 
While Love, in playful measure, 

With chords that never jar, 
Awakes the notes of pleasure, 

AI0112: the sweet guitar. 



WRITTEN IN MY NIECE'S ALBUM. 

" Do write in my album, clear uncle !" you said ; 

14 And what shall the subject be, niece ?" 
You answered, " Whatever may pop in your head, 

I am sure it will be a good piece." 

Alas ! how the blossoms of feeling decay ! 

When life's vernal morning was young, 
If Beauty requested, I warbled a lay, 

For love was the theme that I sung. 

But age has extinguished the fire of my heart, 
And clouded the light of my brain ; 

The joys we are seeking so swiftly depart, 
We never can taste them again. 



142 A TURKISH SONG. 



A TURKISH SONG. 

The wretch of sordid mould, who poises love 
with gold, 

And hugs the yellow store till passion's rage is 
o'er, 

Can never hope to prove the sweets of mutual love. 

But oh, the generous youth, inspired by love and 
truth, 

Who deems no price too high, that wins affec- 
tion's sigh, 

'T is he alone can move a maiden's heart to love. 

A maiden's heart is cold, till touched with dart 
of gold, 

All feathered from the dove, and barbed by in- 
fant love ; 

Its polished point must be, the weapon of the bee. 

Adorned and hid from view, by gems of honey- 
dew ; 

It then so charms the eye, we deem no danger 
nigh, 

Till deep within the heart is felt the nectared 
smart. 



AWAKE, MY DEAR JANE. 143 



AWAKE, MY DEAR JANE. 

Through curtains of crimson and azure, my Jane, 
Infant day, in its cradle, is smiling again ; 
Its eyelids are gemed with the dewdropa of night, 
Which glitter and sparkle like pearls in the light. 
Jane ! sweet Jane ! — Awake, my dear Jane ! 

Oh list to the warblings that float on the air ! 
The gay-feathered songsters are calling my fair ! 
The blackbird and robin, the linnet and jay, 
All join with thy Sandy to call thee away. 
Jane ! sweet Jane ! — Awake, my dear Jane ! 

The lads and the lasses are all on the green, 

The shepherds have chosen my Jane for their 
queen. 

The Maypole is reared, and the garlands are 
twined, 

And a balm-breathing wreath is for Jenny de- 
signed. 
Jane ! sweet Jane ! — Awake, my dear Jane ! 



144 . THE SICILIAN KNIGHT. 



THE SICILIAN KNIGHT. 

Gentle zephyrs of morning were stealing 

? Mid the dew-spangled leaves of the grove, 
Where a knight to his lady-love kneeling, 

Breathed anew his professions of love. 
While his war-steed impatiently neighing, 

Chid the gallant young hero's delay, 
And the loud bugle's clamorous braying, 

Called the soldier to battle away. 

Though she listened in silence, her blushes 

Are confessing an answering flame, 
And the sparkling tear tenderly gushes, 

As he whispers of danger and fame. 
One embrace — a farewell — and 't is over, 

For his fiery steed bears him afar, 
And she prays to the saints for her lover, 

As he hies to the Palestine war. 

Many months sighed the maid in seclusion, 
And in dreams saw the chivalrous youth, 

Plunge the Saracen host in confusion, 
In supporting the banner of truth. 



TDK KISS OF LOVE. 145 

Ami (hat banner was guilded with glory, 

A.S it gleamed like a comet afar, 
And the di'i'iU are recorded in story, 

He achieved at the Palestine war. 

Yet amid the rough battle's commotion, 

Would his fancy retreat to the grove, 
Where he last breathed the vows of devotion, 

To the fair one who sanctioned his love. 
But the rude din of war is now over, 

And her champion returns from afar, 
While she blesses the clay that her lover, 

Boldly hied to the Palestine war. 



THE KISS OF LOVE. 

Yes, e'en in parting there 's a pleasure ! 
One balmy, sweet, redeeming treasure, 
Long cherished in the lover's heart, 
Else who, alas ! could live to part? 
It is the sweet, confessing tear, 
It is the tell-tale sigh we hear, 
It is the kiss of love sincere ! 

Thus lovers, too, in absence, borrow 
From memory's store a balm for sorrow ; 
10 



146 HOPE AND MEMORY. 

While Hope, with smile divinely sweet, 
Still whispers of an hour to meet, 
When eyes shall beam with pleasure's tear, 
While rapture's sigh salutes the ear, 
Breathed in the kiss of love sincere ! 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 

Oh cease, busy Fancy, to conjure up pleasures, 
That flit like bright phantoms o'er memory's 
glass, 

And teach us to yearn for the forfeited treasures, 
Which rise but to mock us, so swiftly they pass ; 

Which fade and dissolve into air, like a dream, 

Or bubbles that glitter and break on the stream. 

And yet it is sweet, in our moments of sadness, 
To gaze on the picture of former delights, 

Till bounding again to the measure of gladness, 
The heart has forgotten the sorrow that blights, 

And revels a moment in joys that are passed, 

But wakes to a bitterer pang than the last. 

Yet Hope shall illumine the gloom of our sorrow, 
The cherub whose smile is a life-giving ray ; 



THE HARP THAT I STRUNG. 14T 

Whose flattering promise of brightness to-morrow, 

With ruddiness tinges the clouds of to-day. 
Though Memory's visions may heighten our pain, 
Yet Hope's sunny smile can assuage it again. 



THE HARP THAT I STRUNG. 

The harp that I strung, when it woke at her 
touch, 

How sweet were its eludings for broken repose ! 
The accent was plaintive, my feelings were such, 

And a sigh would escape at each tremulous 
close. 
It warbled like birds in a tropical grove, 

Of scenes in the beauty of Eden arrayed ; 
It murmured of hope, and it whispered of love, 

The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid. 

The fingers of beauty were gracefully flung 
O'er chords which they often had wakened to 
song, 
And I knew by its tones 't was the harp that I 
strung, 
So sadly, when struck, it complained of the 
wrong. 



148 THE HAPPY FAMILY. 

And such is the heart, when its slumbers have 
flown, 

And anguish or rapture its fibres invade, 
How much it resembles in feeling and tone 

The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid. 



THE HAPPY FAMILY. 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MISS MART G. T N, 

OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I. 

Hempstead, sweet, " lovely village of the plain?* 
For thee the Muse would weave a grateful strain; 
For erst around thy glowing scenes I strayed, 
When summer's flowery garb thy form arrayed ; 
A stranger and an invalid I came, 
For fell disease had paralyzed my frame ; 
But here, I met with friends whose hearts could feel 
For wounded spirits that no art could heal ; 
Cherished by them, I snatched a short repose, 
In calm forgetful n ess of all my woes ; 
And almost felt, beneath one friendly dome, 
The lost felicities and joys of home. 

For one blessed mansion, Mary, still presents 
An Eden of pure love and innocence, 
The Happy Family" par excellence. 






TO MISS HARRIET T N. 149 

Thy smile still lights it — Mary, 'tis thy sire's, 
Thy own paternal roof, which oft inspires 
Such aspirations as my doubts beguile ; 
* Oil, that a home like this for me would smile !" 
The very wish can chase the cloud of care, 
And hope half mingles with the minstrel's prayer. 



TO MISS HARRIET T N, 

OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I. 

My left side suffers — yet I find 

The heart retains its former station, 
And warmly throbs, whene'er the mind 

Reverts to one dear habitation. 
The mind, too, suffers ; for the power 

Of memory is paralyzed ; 
And only dimly marks the hour 

Which erst so tenderly I prized. 

When in that habitation nursed, 

By Friendship's warm and tender care, 
I said that fate might do its worst — 

Soothed by such friends, I 'd learn to bear ! 
When cheered by Harriet's laughing eyes, 

I nearly lost the sense of pain ; 
But fettered memory hourly tries 

To sketch that watching look, in vain. 



150 TO MISS MARY- JANE Y G. 

Oh, yes, I know I have a heart, 

For I can often feel it beat, 
Just as in youth it used to start, 

When beauty's glance I chanced to meet. 
But youth and health, alas ! are gone ! 

They were not prized enough when mine, 
And I were now a wretch forlorn, 

But for the loves that round me twine. 

Wife, children, friends ! — All-bounteous Heaven ! 

I humbly thank thee, from my heart, 
For these blessed joys, which thou hast given, 

Sweet solace for affliction's smart. 
Oh, yes, for these I would endure, 

Were it thy will, another life, 
As painful as the past — as poor ! 

But grant me still my present wife. 



TO MISS MARY JANE Y G, 

OF GREENSBURGH, PA. 

Our earth is but a verdant isle, 
That floats on the ethereal tide, 

Basking in Sol's life-giving smile, 
It can not leave its parent's side ; 

Their tie is love — alas ! the pain 

Of separation, Mary Jane ! 



i 



TO MISS MART JANE Y G. 151 

And here I sonic-times meet a form 
That I have never seen before — 

Some shipwrecked sylph, escaped the storm 
That drove her on our sea-girt shore, 

While crossing ether's trackless main, 

From Eden's confines, Mary Jane. 

I greet her as an angel, strayed 

From the fair regions of the blessed, 

And welcome the celestial maid, 
Entreating her to be my guest. 

If she consent — alas ! the pain 

Of parting with her, Mary Jane! 

Thy form is such, and late thy smile — 
That smile of witching innocence ! — 

Illumined my dwelling for awhile, 
Till love and duty called thee hence. 

My wife, a sister-sylph, in vain 

Prayed thee to tarry, Mary Jane. 

It could not be ! and thus 't is ever 
Our fate, from those we love, to sever. 
But, ah ! such pangs are wisely given, 
Lest we forget to seek for heaven ; 
For there, in realms unknown to pain, 
We yet shall meet thee, Mary Jane. 



152 EPITHALAMIUM. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

ON THE MARRIAGE OF M. M. MARTIN, ESQ., TO MIS; 
JANE IRWIN. 

The flame that burns on Hymen's shrine, 

If fanned by Cupid's fragrant breath, 
For ever glows a light divine, 

That brightens at the touch of death. 
For true connubial love for ever 

Through kindred hearts incessant rolls, 
And naught in heaven or earth can sever 

The cord that joins congenial souls. 

The nuptial couch is heaven on earth, 

If truth and purity be there ; 
'T is not in words to speak its worth — 

Angelic harps its bliss declare. 
There heavenly love with wisdom meets, 

There fond affection joins with truth, 
To revel in ambrosial sweets, 

An Eden of immortal youth. 

Thrice happy pair ! may fadeless verdure 
The Martin's favorite Marsh adorn ; 

Thrice happy pair ! for angels heard your 
Pledge upon the nuptial morn. 



LOVES SHE LIKE ME? 153 

Be happy still, till joys supernal, 

Immortal in your bosoms rise, 
For Hymen's sweets will bloom eternal, 

To bless your loves beyond the skies. 



LOVES SHE LIKE ME? 

Oh say, my fluttering heart, 

Loves she like me ? 
Is her's thy counterpart — 

Throbs it like thee ? 
Does she remember yet, 
The spot where first we met, 
Which I shall ne'er forget ? 

Loves she like me ? 

Soft echoes still repeat, 

il Loves she like me V 
When on that mossy seat, 

Beneath the tree, 
I wake my amorous lay, 
While lambkins round me play, 
And whispering zephyrs say, 
Loves she like me ? 

On her I think by day, 
Loves she like me ? 



154 I SIGH NOT FOR GLORY. 

With her in dreams I stray, 

O'er mead or lea. 

My hopes of earthly bliss 

Are all comprised in this, 

To share her nuptial kiss ? 

Loves she like me ? 

Does absence give her pain ? 

Loves she like me ? 
And does she thus arraign 

Fortune's decree ? 
Does she my name repeat? 
Will she with rapture greet 
The hour that sees us meet ? 

Loves she like me ? 



I SIGH NOT FOR GLORY. 

I sigh not for glory to dazzle the crowd, 
I ask not for fortune to strut with the proud, 
I covet no title of any degree, 
Except, my clear Rosa, a title to thee. 
But yet if the fates have unkindly ordained, 
That these must be mine ere thy hand is obtained, 
Inspired by the smiling young hopes which I 

cherish, 
I '11 ask them, and win them, dear Rosa, or perish. 



LADY, ACCEPT THIS LITTLE BOOK. 155 



TO A LADY, 

ON PARTING WITH A COPY OF THE " DEWDROPS." 

Adieu, gentle fair ! and till fate shall decree 
Again to restore thee to friendship and me, 
Accept of this token of brotherly love, 
The "Dewdrops" of mercy distilled from above. 

And when the sad period of absence is past, 
And those thou art leaving embrace thee at last, 
Xo tears of regret shall their rapture annoy, 
But Dewdrops shall sparkle in sunbeams of joy. 



LADY, ACCEPT THIS LITTLE BOOK. 

Lady, accept this little book, 

A trifling token of regard, 
And when upon these lines you look, 

Bestow one thought upon the bard. 
"Tis friendship prompts the humble lay, 

From flattery's heartless fictions free, 
Which only simply means to say, 

He dedicates the book to thee. 



156 YES, LOVE HAS ITS SORROWS. 

The morn of life is fair and bright, 

And childhood's path is strewed with flowers, 
While fragrant gems of sparkling light, 

Are scattered from the light-winged hours. 
Youth revels in the Eden scene, 

Diversified with hills and slope, 
And strays among the arbors green, 

Led by the hand of smiling hope. 

But disappointment's chilling blast, 

On passion's wave destructive beat, 
Ere mid-day comes, too often cast, 

The blighted beauties at our feet. 
Yet, still, dear girl, whate'er betide, 

Though flowers may fade as soon as blown, 
Let virtue be thy constant guide, 

And happiness thy own. 



YES, LOVE HAS ITS SORROWS. 

Yes, love has its sorrows, but who would refuse 'em, 
So mingled with rapture and joy ? 

What mortal the rose would discard from his 
bosom, 
For fear that it's thorns might annoy ? 



THE LOCK OF HAIR. 157 



THE LOCK OF HAIR. 

Yes, it is mine — that ringlet token, 

That raven lock of glossy shine, 
What transport has the pledge awoken, 

In this enraptured heart of mine ; 
And next my heart the gift I'll wear, 

That heart with pure affection swelling, 
And thus a lock of angel's hair, 

Will then be near an angel's dwelling. 

Oh tell me not that hopes delusive, 

Or joys unreal my fancy mock, 
When doubts require a proof conclusive, 

I '11 look upon this raven lock. 
Or if it all illusion be, 

My heart with joy is so elated, 
I'd hug it still in ecstacy, 

Nor wish the error dissipated. 



158 MY CARD-RACK. 



MY CARD-RACK. 

TO THE FAIR ARTIST IN SHELLWORK, WHO MADE 
THEM FOR FAIRS. 

Oh ! Fancy 's pencil never traced, 

Nor Art's inventive powers designed, 
Such beauty, genius, wit, and taste, 

In one sweet portraiture combined. 
When at the fair you charmed our eyes, 

Each candid heart acknowledged there, 
That justice must award the prize 

To you, the fairest of the fair. 

That hour is past — but memory oft, 

Pictures the glowing scene anew, 
That speaking glance, so bright and soft, 

And all the charms that circled you. 
But when I gaze on those dear shells, 

Which nought on earth could purchase back, 
With hope and fear my bosom swells, 

For doubts still keep me on the rack. 

But I will hope, and persevere, 
Dangers and obstacles despise, 



LOVE. 159 



As sportmen, who pursue the deer, 
Hazard existence for the prize. 

But had I one sharp-pointed dart, 
With Cupid's skill and Cupid's bow, 

I } d pierce one little bounding hart, 
And mine should be the timid Roe. 



LOVE. 

Love, gentle fair, can boast a source divine, 
Whatever be its earthly form and feature, 
It flows like Sol's life-giving beams benign, 
From the Creator to the humblest creature. 
It is the very life and soul, 

Of all that live, and breathe, and move ; 
There 's not a pulse from pole to pole 
But vibrates solely from the power of love. 
The largest form, the smallest thing, 

That Nature's boundless kingdom holds, 
Whether it move by feet or wing, 
Or finny oar, or sinuous folds ; 
All, all exist on this mysterious plan, 
From viewless insects up to lordly man. 

Love, in its essence, ever flows the same, 
But when recipient vessels are defiled, 



160 LOVE. 

They change its nature, purity, and aim, 
To earthly passions, selfish, fierce, and wild ; 

To envy, malice, covetous desire, 

Revenge, ambition, pride, and jealous ire, 

Till Love's benignant, pure, celestial flame, 
Is thus converted to infernal fire ! 

Not so, in hearts like thine, my fair, 

Guarded by knowledge, truth, and reason, 
For vice can find no entrance there, 
By open force, or subtle treason. 

Such hearts, like mirrors, catch the rays 

Of Love's benignant flame, 
Reflecting back a milder blaze, 
Of humble gratitude and praise, 

To bless the giver's name. 
They throw around inspiring gleams 
Of bliss that angels taste above, 
And these are but reflected beams 
From the pure flame of love. 
But if a true, congenial heart, 

Of firmer texture, catch its light, 
Into one focal point will dart 

The rays of both, and there unite. 
Resign the lens to Cupid's care, 

While Hymen's torch shall blaze above : 
Such be thy happy lot, my fair, 
For this will be connubial love. 



THE WHITE COTTAGE. 161 



THE WHITE COTTAGE. 

Thou peaceful cot beneath whose roof 

The calmest, purest joys are mine ; 
Where sweetest smiles, affection's proof, 
Their sunny rays, for my behoof, 

With mildest, purest, lustre shine. 
No pilgrim of the stormy main, 

Enters his haven w r ith such joy 
As fills my bosom, when I gain 
Thy evening shelter, and obtain 

The kiss of welcome from my boy. 

Thy snow-white walls — the lattice green, 

Which veils each modest eye of thine ; 
The trees which throw their shade between, 
On which the ripening fruit is seen, 

The gay, rose melons, and the vine — 
All — all delight me — but the door 

Admits me to a heaven within ; 
No fretted ceiling, fitted floor, 
Nor gorgeous trappings— but there 's more 

Of real bliss than monarchs win. 
11 



162 THE WHITE COTTAGE. 

Connubial joys and filial love 

Await my evening welcome home — 
Delights the virtuous prize above 
The brightest chaplets ever wove 

For demigods of Greece or Rome. 
This is my empire — here enthroned, 

I envy not the proudest king ; 
My sceptre ne'er can be disowned, 
For hearts of love, the sweetest toned, 

To me their joyful anthems sing. 

Yes, dear loved cottage, while beneath 

Thy humble roof true bliss is mine, 
The votive chaplet I will wreath, 
And here my grateful numbers breathe, 

To thank the Giver's hand divine. 
The charms of palace, tower, or dome, 

With guilded pomp, I covet not ; 
Thou, dear " White Cottage" art my home, 
From hence I never wish to roam ; 

Content can gild the humblest lot. 






AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS. 163 



AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS. 

The season of flowers is fled, 
The pride of the garden decayed, 

The sweets of the meadow are dead, 
And the blushing parterre disarrayed. 

The blossom-decked garb of sweet May, 
Enamelled with hues of delight, 

Is exchanged for a mantle less gay, 
And spangled with colors less bright. 

For sober Pomona has won 
The frolicsome Flora's domains, 

And the work the gay goddess begun, 
The height of maturity gains. 

But though less delightful to view, 
The charms of ripe Autumn appear, 

Than Spring's richly varied hue, 
That infantile age of the year. 

Yet now, and now only, we prove 
The uses by Nature designed ; 



164 AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS. 

The seasons were sanctioned to move, 
To please less than profit mankind. 

Regret the lost beauties of May, 

But the fruits of those beauties enjoy ; 

The blushes that dawn with the day, 
Xoon's splendor will ever destroy. 

How pleasing, how lovely appears 
Sweet infancy, sportive and gay ; 

Its prattle, its smiles, and its tears, 
Like spring, or the dawning of day ! 

But manhood's the season designed 
For wisdom, for works, and for use ; 

To ripen the fruits of the mind, 

Which the seeds sown in childhood produce. 

Then infancy's pleasures regret, 

But the fruits of those pleasures enjoy; 

Does spring autumn's bounty beget ? 
Lo the Man is begun in the Boy. 



MARY' GRAVE. 165 



MARY'S GRAVE. 

Let those whose hearts have learned to glow 
With love that ne'er can change or vary, 

Permit one pitying tear to flow 

O'er the cold grave of hapless Mary. 

She loved, alas ! a treacherous youth, 
'Who feigned to love the artless fairy ; 

Too late she proved him void of truth, 
And death relieved the hapless Mary. 

No more she shines the queen of May, 
Nor graces more the rustic dairy, 

For ah ! the spoiler bore away 
The rifled sweets of hapless Mary. 

Oh then, ye artless nymphs, beware ! 

In trusting faithless man, be wary, 
And thus escape the fiend Despair, 

That dug the grave of hapless Mary. 



1 06 THE ORPHAN MAID. 



THE ORPHAN MAID. 

How hard the maiden orphan's fate, 

Whose early joys and hopes are fled, 
Who vainly asks the rich and great 

For leave to earn her daily bread ! 
Exposed to frowns, rebukes, and sneers, 

In humble menial garb arrayed, 
While heartless fools deride her tears, 

And spurn the hapless orphan maid. 

There was a time — alas ! ? t is fled — 

When fortune, friends, and kindred smiled, 
When sunny rays of joy were shed 

Around the gay and happy child; 
When, shielded by parental care, 

No pang of sorrow dared invade, 
Save when she saw the meek despair 

Of some poor hapless orphan maid. 

But ah ! her parents died, and left 
Their darling, unprotected child, 

Of fortune, friends, and joy bereft, 
And then the maiden never smiled. 



" IRY A XX. 167 

She only asked to toil for bread, 

She sought no unrequited aid — 
But asked in vain ! — till hope was fled, 

And death relieved the orphan maid ! 



TO MARY ANN. 

Dear Mary Ann, the sparkling gems, 

Which deck the brow of even, 
Are rayless, to the diadems 
And jewels on the garment hems 
Of sainted maids in heaven. 

The fleecy n:ow, so pure and white, . 

By winds of winter driven, 
Is darker than the shades of night, 
To those celestial robes of light 

Which clothe the nymphs of heaven. 

No banquet e'er by mortal spread, 

No feast by monarch given, 
Can match the living wine and bread, 
With which the virgin train are fed, 
Who crowd the courts of heaven. 

The crown, the robe, the feast be thine 
To all who ask, they 're given ; 



168 THE BOOK OF THE HEART. 

The jewels, gems, the bread and wine, 
Will fill thee with that flame divine, 
Which lights the maids of heaven. 

Thine be the pearl of nameless worth, 

By Christ alone 't is given — 
And though we never meet on earth, 
If we obtain the second birth, 
Thou 'It kiss the bard in heaven. 



THE BOOK OF THE HEART. 

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 

Thy mind is an album, unsullied and bright, 
Just opened — for angels and spirits to write 
Each thought and affection, intent and desire, 
That wisdom may sanction — that love may in- 
spire. 

The book is immortal — Oh guard it with care, 
Lest demons should sully its pages so fair ; 
Repulse such intruders, nor shrink from the strife, 
And Jesus will smile on the "Book of thy life." 



FOR VIOLA'S ALBUM. 169 



FOR VIOLA'S ALBUM. 

Yes, I would acid one humble leaf, 

To the bright chaplet thou art twining, 
But ah ! its verdure will be brief, 
For time is such an errant thief, 
He blights the sweetest buds with grief, 
And leaves the fairest flower declining. 

But there 's a wreath, that ne'er can fade, 

Already for thy temples twined, 
Such as in heaven the angels braid, 
To deck the brows of every maid, 
Who, like Yiola, here displayed 
The beauties of a cultured mind. 

That wreath shall deck Viola's brow, 

In realms unknown to time or grief, 

And each young plant she cultures now, 

Each infant mind her toils endow, 

Will breathe to heaven a fragrant vow, 

Brightening the tints of every leaf. 



170 DUETT. 



DUETT. 

SHE. 

When grief the heart benumbs, 
How the pulses languish ! 

HE. 

Hope, like a cherub, conies, 
Then we lose the anguish. 

SHE. 

Here, late, were clouds of gloom, 
All the scene surrounding ; 

HE. 

Now all is dressed in bloom, 
Hearts are gayly bounding. 

BOTH. 

Still, then, in pleasure's bower, 
Let us rove delighted ; 

Joy is a transient flower, 
Taste it ere 't is blighted. 

SHE. 

Should dark despair return 
On the coming morrow, 



TO ELIZA. 171 

HE. 

Love's torch will brighter burn 
'Mid the gloom of sorrow. 

SHE. 

Love may himself decamp, 
In the hour of sadness ; 

HE. 

Then feed the urchin's lamp 
With the oil of gladness. 

BOTH. 

Thus, here, in pleasure's bower, 

Let us rove delighted ; 
Joy is a transient flower, 

Taste it, ere 't is blighted. 



TO ELIZA. 

And wilt thou think of him who traced 

This tributary lay, 
Or will his image be effaced, 
As foot-prints in the dew are chased 

By the next solar ray ? 
Can memory's light become so dim, 
That thou wilt not remember him ? 



172 TO A YOUNG LADY. 

I will not libel thus a heart, 

Where every grace resides, 
Where modest nature, void of art, 
Directed still by virtue's chart, 
In peerless state presides : 
She shall thy silent prompter be, 
Sometimes, dear girl, to think of me. 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Could any charm have broke the spell, 

That long has chained my humble lyre, 
Thy smile had waked the silent shell, 
And taught its sweetest notes to swell 
With pure poetic fire. 

But, oh ! its chords are sleeping still, 

And e'en thy charms must plead in vain ; 
This heart has lost its wonted thrill, 
Intruding cares its fervors chill, 
And check its votive strain. 



PHI SILENT CONFESSION. 173 



THE SILENT CONFESSION. 

TO A LADY, WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR IF HE COULD 
INTERPRET A BLUSH THAT HE HAD NOTED. 

Oh yes, 't was a fervor of feeling, 

That gushed like a stream from the heart, 
And flew through the pulses, revealing 

What language could never impart. 
It gave to that frame an emotion, 

Which sweetly the feeling confessed ; 
A zephyr might breathe on the ocean, 

And wake such a swell on its breast. 

The glow of thy visage expressed it, 

'T was borne to my heart in a sigh ; 
An eloquent silence confessed it, 

It spoke in the glance of thine eye. 
In short, 't was the soul of my treasure, 

Aroused in alarm from its sleep, 
That flew to those windows of azure, 

And lifted their curtains to peep. 



174 



OH SAY, CAN THIS BE LOVE JT 



OH SAY, CAN THIS BE LOVE? 

Why does my heart so strangely start, 

Each pulse so wildly play ? 
Why can not willing lips impart 

What feeling bids them say ; — 
Cease, busy heart ! — Can this be love ? 

Why do n't the trembler rest ? 
Why does it throb as if a dove 

Were caged within my breast ? 
'T is not the throb of anguish — 

It can not fatal prove — 
And yet I sigh and languish ! 

Oh say, can this be love ? 



Cease, busy heart ! — Why throbs it so, 

With such an anxious thrill ? 
It seems to have a fever's glow, 

And yet I am not ill ! 
Warm on my cheek I feel the flame, 

Its light illumes my eye ; 
Still, if my lips attempt the name, 

Tis whispered in a sigh. 



KATHLEEN O'MOORE. 175 

,r T is not the sigh of anguish — 

So that can nothing prove, 
And yet I daily languish — 

Oh say, can this be love ? 



KATHLEEN O'MOORE. 

She hung on my bosom, and vowed to be true, 
As I kissed off a tear-drop, and murmured adieu ; 

Then, slow and sad-hearted, 

From Kathleen I parted, 

From Kathleen O'Moore. 

I tore myself from her, and left her in tears, 
With a pang at my heart yet remembered for years, 

Though hope was repeating 

A promise of meeting 

With Kathleen O'Moore. 

? Twas eve, and the moon brightly smiled on the spot, 
As I lingered, to gaze yet again on the cot 

That held the dear treasure 

I loved without measure, 

My Kathleen O'Moore. 



no to a . 

And hope fondly whispered, with flattering tone, 
That I shortly might call the dear treasure my own ; 

But hope has deceived me, 

For fate has bereaved me 

Of Kathleen O'Moore. 

A richer swain wooed, and she smiled on his plea, 
And she gave him the hand she had plighted to me, 

And left me to languish, 

With heart-rending anguish, 

For Kathleen O'Moore. 



TO A- 



When that soft, beaming eye reviews 
This grateful tribute of the Muse, 
Those coral lips must not refuse 

One little word to frame ; 
And be the little word they choose, 

The Poet's name. 

Oh breathe but that, in one soft sigh, 
Whene'er these couplets meet thine eye, 
And Zephyr, as he flutters by, 

Shall bear the sigh to me, 
And whisper in thine ear, that I 

Remember thee. 



to ian mi:. 171 



TO IANTHE. 

Iaxthe, could I touch the lyre, 

With magic art like thine, 
I Yl wake the spirit-breathing wire 
To thoughts of light and tones of fire, 
Like those which, breathed by thee, inspire 

This raptured heart of mine. 
And I would still the lay prolong, 

And oft the strain repeat, 
To tell how much I love thy song, 

Its numbers are so sweet. 



I've marked thee — ere a dozen springs 

Had bloomed upon thy cheek, 
When, buoyant on her glittering wings, 
Thy infant fancy warbled things 
Such delicate imaginings, 

As poesy can speak. 
Twas genius, uncontrolled by art, 

And reckless of defeat, 
I heard the lay, it touched my heart, 

'T was wild and simply sweet. 
12 



178 TO IANTHE. 

I marked the next, with cultured mind, 

In all the charms of youth, 
And knew thy lovely form enshrined 
A heart which every grace combined, 
By native taste and art refined, 

The pure abode of truth. 
Then, when I listened to thy lay, 

Each pulse with rapture beat, 
It seemed to bear the soul away, 

'T was exquisitely sweet. 

Another heard — the one alone 

Whose w r orth inspired the strain ; 
Whose manly heart is honor's throne, 
Who breathed a sigh for every tone, 
And made his modest wishes known, 

Nor did he plead in vain. 
And when a wife — I heard thee still 

The matchless strain repeat ; 
How must his heart with transport thrill !- 

'T was ravishingly sweet. 

And is there yet a tenderer tie 

To twine Ianthe's heart? 
Can warmer feelings light her eye, 
And bid her pulses quicker fly ? 
Can any other's smile or sigh 

Such ecstasies impart ? 



IHK ADIEU. I » J 



There can — an infant's smile inspire 
A strain with joy replete ; 

A mother's love attunes the lyre — 
T is now divinely sweet ! 



SMILE OF AFFECTION. 

Is there a light whose effulgence can dry 
The tear of affliction, and rapture restore ? 

'T is the bright, sunny ray of a love-beam eye, 
The smile of affection from one I adore. 



I 'd sigh not for grandeur, for fame, or for wealth, 
But, thankful for little, would wish for no more, 

If blest with a cottage, with friendship, and health, 
And the smile of affection from one I adore. 



THE ADIEU. 

Oh, green was the poplar, when, under its shade, 
I exchanged the soft vow with my shepherdess 

maid; 
But winter soon blighted its sweet summer hue, 
So faded hope when I bade Lilla adieu. 



180 THE ADIEU. 

Be constant, I sighed, till thy Damon return, 
For still this fond bosom for Lilla will burn ; 
My heart, like the compass, to love shall be true, 
She wept, as I murmured — dear Lilla, adieu ! 

But doomed was my Lilla another to bless, 
And doomed is her Damon to pine in distress ; 
Like leaves of the poplar, which tempests then 

strew, 
My hopes were all scattered — so, Lilla, adieu! 

The spring soon returned, and the poplar was drest, 
But peace had for ever forsaken my breast ; 
From the music of nature no comfort I drew, 
For the birds and the streams murmured, Lilla, 
adieu ! 

When, torn by my sorrows, I bow to my doom, 
Will a tear from my Lilla e'er fall on my tomb ? 
When the leaves on the poplar are blast and few, 
They '11 sigh in the breeze, dearest Lilla, adieu ! 



RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. 



THE NATIVITY. 



Strike the loud anthem, to hail the blest morning, 

Jesus the Saviour an infant appears ; 
Lo ! in the East, a new day-spring is dawning ! 
Hark ! the glad tidings which sound in our ears! 
On this auspicious morn, 
To us a child is born, 
Glory to God in the highest be given ; 
Hail our Redeemer's birth — 
Good will and peace on earth — 
Man shall again have conjunction with Heaven. 

Hark ! ? t was the voice of a seraph that sounded — 
Shepherds of Judea start with surprise, 

While, with a radiance of glory surrounded, 
Troops of bright angels descend from the skies. 



182 THE INCARNATION. 

Now loud the choral strain 
Swells round the happy plain, 
Glory to God in the highest be given ; 
Hail our Redeemer's birth — 
Good will and peace on earth — 
Man shall again have conjunction with Heaven. 

Hail to the Saviour, descending from heaven, 

To build him a kingdom which never shall cease ; 
The Child that is bom and the Son that is given, 
Is God everlasting, the great Prince of Peace. 
Praise him with grateful lays, 
Pour forth the soul in praise ; 
The government rests on his shoulders alone : 
In him the Godhead dwells 
Which has subdued the hells ; 
And God the Creator as Jesus is known. 



THE INCARNATION. 

Oh for a Seraph's golden lyre, 

With chords of light, and tones of fire, 

To siug that wondrous love 
Which brought a Deity below, 
To save an erring race from wo, 

And give them joys above. 



THE [NCARNATION. 183 

Oh 1 1 1 : i \ thai love inspire my soul, 
Till such ecstatic numbers roll, 

As are by augels given ; 
To tell Redemption's wondrous plan, 
How Heaven descended down to man, 

That man might rise to heaven. 

His creatures fell — no pitying eye, 
No powerful arm to save, was nigh, 

Or aid our feeble powers ; 
He saw — lie came — he fought alone, 
And conquered evils not his own, 

That we might conquer ours. 

Temptation's thorny path he trod, 
In form, a man — in soul, a God, 

And trod the path alone ; 
In vain the direst fiends assailed, 
His mighty arm of power prevailed, 

And hell was overthrown. 

He passed the dismal vale of death — 
The human form resigned its breath, 

And like a mortal died ; 
But death was crushed beneath his feet, 
He rose a God and Man complete, 

His human glorified. 



184 REDEMPTION. 

Amazing mercy ! — love immense ! 
Surpassing every human sense, 

Since time and sense began ! 
That man might shun the realms of pain, 
And know and love his God again, 

His God became a man ! 



KEDEMPTION. 

Redemption claims our highest lays, 
To Jesus Christ belongs the praise ; 
The lofty theme should fire the soul, 
And music's richest numbers roll. 
Our blest Redeemer is the God we own, 
Then swell the chorus to his name alone. 

Unseen, unknown, and unrevealed, 
Ko creature's eye our God beheld, 
Till he the wondrous work begun, 
And showed the Father in the Son ; 
Jehovah now as Jesus Christ is known, 
Then swell the chorus to his name alone. 

From heaven his pitying eye surveyed 
The ruin sin on earth had made ; 
He saw his creatures run the road 
Which led from happiness and God ; 



GOD IN HIS TEMPLE. 185 

He saw, and saved — the work was all his own, 
Then swell the chorus to his name alone. 

Swift from supernal realms of day, 
Seraphic minstrels winged their way, 
To hail the great Redeemer's birth, 
And published peace to men on earth : 
"To God give glory" — sung the joyous throng, 
Let men and angels still repeat the song. 

Alas ! no human accents can 
Express the love of God to man ; 
Who, to redeem a sinful worm, 
Assumed the human mind and form ; 

Was born a man, that man might be re-born! 

Then let us praise him on his natal morn. 



GOD IN HIS TEMPLE. 

God is in his holy temple, 

Sons of earth be silent now ; 
Hither let the saints assemble, 

And before his footstool bow. 
Lo, he 's present with us ever, 

When assembled in his name ; 
Aiding every good endeavor, 

Guiding every humble aim. 



186 GOD IX HIS TEMPLE. 

God is iii bis holy temple, 

T is each renovated mind ; 
Where the purer thoughts assemble, 

While the base are cast behind. 
Every earthly, low affection, 

Long opposed, is silent now ; 
Every passion, in subjection, 

Must at Wisdom's altar bow. 

God is in his holy temple, 

'T is the church he calls his own, 
'T is the city where assemble 

All who worship him alone. 
New Jerusalem the holy 

Is the city of our God, 
There our Saviour governs solely, 

With the balance and the rod. 

God is in his holy temple, 

'T is the body of our Lord ; 
Infidels may doubt and tremble, 

We have learned it from his Word ; 
From the Word which wrought creation, 

From that Word which flesh became, 
Which alone can give salvation — 

God and Jesus are the same. 



THE WORLD OF MIND. 187 



THE WORLD OF MIND. 

FIRST DAY OF CREATION. 

There is a world — the world of mind, 
By neither time nor space confined ; 
And when we cease in flesh to dwell, 
That world will be our heaven or hell. 

By fallen nature, 't is, alas ! 
A rude, chaotic, shapeless mass ; 
Devoid of goodness, truth, or light, 
And veiled iu backest shades of night. 

But he who gave creation birth, 
Can re-create this mental earth ; 
For this his Spirit, like a dove, 
Broods o'er our secret thoughts in love. 

If we consent to be renewed, 

And wish our evil lust subdued ; 

" Let there be light," he savs, and straight 

We see our low, disordered state. 



188 THE WORLD OF HIND. 

Then do we seek to know the Lord, 
Receive instruction from bis word ; 
While he divides the day from night, 
And we proceed from shade to light. 

Lord, let thy Spirit, like a dove, 
Brood over all our souls in love ; 
Then give us light our state to see, 
And we will give the praise to thee. 



THE WORLD OF MIND. 

SECOND DAT OF CREATION 

Our God can re-create, 
And form the soul anew ; 

And all who will co-operate, 
Shall find his promise true. 

When we permit his light 

Our evils to reprove, 
And then those evils boldly fight, 

He will the whole remove. 

Though hard the contest prove, 
And doubtful seem the fray, 

He hovers o'er us with his love, 
Till we have gained the day. 



MIRIAM'S E 189 

The Lord will then create 

A firmament sublime, 
Celestial thoughts to separate 

From those of sense and time. 

We then no more believe 

The work to be our own ; 
But all of good that we receive 

Ascribe to God alone. 

Thus will a second birth 

Form heaven within the soul, 

And man, a new-created earth, 
In order's orbit roll. 



MIRIAM'S SONG. 

Sixg to Jehovah an anthem of praise, 
And tell of his glory in rapturous lays ; 
Sing of his triumphs when demons assaulted, 

When hosts of infernals his human assailed, 
The hells were subdued, and the Victor exalted — 
Like man he was tempted — like God he pre- 
vailed. 
Sing to Jehovah an anthem of praise, 
And tell of his triumphs in rapturous lays. 



190 MIRIAM'S SONG. 

Praise him, ye ransomed — he conquered 

for you, 
Who fled from your sins, and beheld them 
pursue, 
Whelming your spirits in deep tribulation ; 

But Jesus was present, a pillar of fire, 
And led you in safety through seas of temptation, 
In which you beheld each assailant expire. 
Sing to Jehovah an anthem of praise, 
And tell of his triumphs in rapturous lays. 

Praise him who conquered our spiritual foes, 
When fierce, like an army of horsemen, they 
rose, 
Threatening again in their shackles to bind us ; 
Through billows of trouble he led us to shore, 
While the horse and his rider were foundered 
behind us, 
Overwhelmed in the gulf, to assail us no more. 
Sing to Jehovah an anthem of praise, 
And tell of his triumphs in rapturous lays. 



OPEN THE DOOR. 191 



OPEN THE DOOR. 

That God who calls the human mind, 
A temple for himself designed, 

A house upon a rock — 
Assures us he will patient wait, 
In mercy, at the mental gate, 

And for admittance knock. 



Who hears the gracious call within, 
And draws the iron bolts of sin, 

Which barricade the door, 
Will banquet with a guest divine, 
On life-imparting food and wine, 

From Love's exhaustless store. 



Come, then, clear Saviour — be my guest, 
Knock louder at this flinty breast, 

And rouse me with thy voice ; 
Then will I struggle to remove 
The sins which now obstruct thy love, 

And in that love rejoice. 



192 HOW SHALL I COME BEFORE HIM? 

Thou wilt not let me strive in vain — 
The gates of brass shall burst in twain, 

The iron bars shall fall ; 
Then will my soul thy temple be, 
Where I shall ever feast with thee, 

My God, my life, my all ! 



HOW SHALL I COME BEFORE HIM ? 

How shall we sinners come before 

Our blessed Saviour's dazzling throne ; 

Or how acceptably adore 

The great redeeming God we own ? 

Shall fatlings on his altar burn, 
Or oil in bounteous rivers flow ? 

Will God be pleased with such return, 
For all the mighty debt we owe ? 

Or shall we burst the tenderest tie 

That binds the throbbing seat of sense, 

And with our body's offspring buy 
A pardon for our soul's offence ? 

Ah ! no — a humble, contrite heart, 
Is all the offering God requires ; 



HAPPINESS. 193 

Our only sacrifice, to part 

With evil loves and false desires. 



Oh let us, then, no longer stray, 

Along the dangerous paths we Ve trod ; 

For he has plainly showed the way 
Which will conduct us back to God. 

'T is but to regulate the mind 

By the pure precepts of his word ; 

To act with truth and love combined, 
And humbly imitate the Lord. 



HAPPINESS. 

Who then is happy ? Ere she close the strain, 
The muse herself shall answer. 'T is the man 
(Of easy fortune and a generous heart) 
Whose charity by wisdom is directed ; 
Who loves his God, his neighbor, and himself, 
In just descending order ; whose employ 
Is doing good to others ; whose reward, 
The bright reflection of the joy he gives. 
Like a mild taper in a diamond lustre, 
Which multiplies one little ray to thousands, 
His means of blessing still increase by use. 
13 



194 HAPPINESS. 

Not all the evils of this sordid world, 
Can shake the solid peace of such a man. 
The changing seasons, times, events, and all 
The various scenes that checker human life, 
And e'en the chilling adverse storms of fate, 
Serve but to ripen the celestial fruits 
His active love produces ; draughts of bliss 
He quaffs for every little taste he gives, 
And finds a heaven in wishing others there. 
To seek for happiness in things of sense, 
In wealth, ambition, pleasure, or supineness, 
Is but a vain exertion — idle hope ; 
For then we chase a transitory cheat, 
And leave the game, the real prize, behind, 
Hid in contentment's calm sequestered vale, 
While we toil up the mountain's rugged side, 
Tempting new dangers* and exposed to all 
The storms that beat ambition's bleaker road ; 
Or perils worse than these, concealed beneath 
The treacherous sweets that bloom in pleasure's 

path, 
A thousaud serpent-stings, unseen, but fatal. 
And if in dastard indolence we rest, 
Our lazy hopes are certain of defeat. 
Then learn the true, the only real source 
Whence happiness can flow — a precept drawn 
From holy writ this heavenly source proclaims — 
" To fear the Lord, and his commands obeys, 



CONSECRATION. 195 

Is man's whole duty," in a single line ; 
An easy yoke, a burden light to bear. 
'T is but to love in heart and action both — 
For love is the fulfilling- of the law. 



CONSECRATION. 

Jesus is God, and God alone, 

Oh, be this truth confest, 
For 't is the sure foundation stone 

On which the church shall rest. 

Though modern builders pass it by, 
And scribes and priests reject, 

On this blest truth, which they deny, 
We now the church erect. 

Though earth and hell against it join, 
Yet must this building rise ; 

The work, Almighty God, is thine, 
And wondrous in our eyes 






196 SIN NO MORE. 



SIN NO MORE. 

A song of gratitude begin, 
To praise the God who saves from sin ; 
Who marks the penitential tear, 
And deigns the contrite sigh to hear ; 
Who whispers hope, when we our sins deplore — 
"Thy God condemns thee not — offend no more." 

But ah ! such love can ne'er be sung — 
Such boundless grace ! — by mortal tongue ; 
For e'en celestial minstrels deem 
Their highest skill below the theme ; 
Yet mortals can, with gratitude, adore 
The God who pardons all that sin no more. 

Dear Lord ! is this condition all — 
To fight the foes that wrought our fall? 
Thus armed with hope, I '11 quell a host, 
Nor let so cheap a heaven be lost ; 
Oh then repeat the sweet assurance o'er, 
" Thy God will not condemn thee — sin no more." 



AND DID I SAY? 197 



AND DID I SAY? 

And did I say my lyre should sleep, 

Because no laurels decked it ; 
That I no more its chords would sweep, 
Because its lay is valued cheap, 

And all the world neglect it ? 
I did — but felt not then the flame 

Which now within me blazes, 
Nor recked of His eternal claim, 
Who gave the lyre to sing his name, 

And utter forth his praises. 

But now that lyre shall sleep no more, 

Nor wake to earthly measures ; 
But every strain it warbles o'er, 
Shall that Eternal Source adore, 

Whence flow immortal pleasures. 
No more I prostitute its lay, 

To subjects evanescent ; 
But sing those scenes of endless day, 
Where angel harps in rapture play, 

And praises flow incessant. 



198 THE PARALYTIC'S DEPRECATION. 



THE PARALYTIC'S DEPRECATION. 

Paralysis, thou ruthless fiend, forbear ! 
Drag not thy victim thus to fell despair! 
Or art thou licensed by offended Heaven ? 
And has commission, then, to thee been given, 
Arouud poor, erring mortals thus to throw 
Thy iron shackles ? Demon, let me go ! 
Why chain me thus ? dissolve the spell ! relent! 
In vain I struggle, for my strength is spent. 
In pity spare me ! for I can not move 
My limbs, nor lift my pinioned arms above, 
In supplication to the throne of grace ; 
Hold, ruthless demon ! for a little space. 

Father of mercies ! humbled to the dust, 
I here confess the visitation just ; 
For I have sinned against thy truth and grace, 
And thus before thee lowly bend my face ; 
Confusion seals my lips, and ties my tongue, 
But oh ! remember what thy prophet sung : 
That " thou art merciful and gracious" still, 
To all who bow submissive to thy will ; 



BE WISE. 199 

Still "slow to anger," merciful as just, 
Oh give me hope ! remember I am dust ; 
Thou wilt not always chide, nor anger bear 
To crush a wretch that pleads with thee in prayer ; 
For, like the royal bard, by truth convicted, 
I feel " 't is good for me to be afflicted, 
That I might learn thy statutes" and thy law, 
W hence all my consolations now I draw. 
For ere affliction's cloud obscured my day, 
How oft temptations lured my steps astray ! 
But now I keep thy word with zealous fear, 
Oh, with thy pard'ning mercy still be near, 
According to thy loving-kindness, Lord, 
As thou hast promised sinners in thy word ; 
Oli blot out my transgressions ; wash my soul, 
From its pollutions — make the leper whole. 
Hear my petition ! make me to know, once more, 
The " joy and gladness'' which I knew before ; 
So shall my " broken bones again rejoice," 
And I will praise thee with a grateful voice ! 



BE WISE! 

The graver moralist resumes his theme, 
To wake the soul from error's fatal dream ; 
To show the path which leads to solid bliss, 
The happy goal which slaves of passion miss. 



200 PHILOSOPHY AND RELIGION. 



THILOSOPHY AND RELIGION. 

There is a Philosophy, hollow, unsound, 
To matter confining its false speculations ; 

Whose flight is restrained within Nature's dull 
round, 
Its pinions the web of sophistic persuasions. 

And there 's a Philosophy truly divine, 
That traces effects up to spiritual causes, 

Determines the link of the chain where they join, 
And soars to an infinite height ere it pauses. 

That meanly debases the image of God, 

To rank with the brutes in the scale of creation ; 
This raises the tenant of light from the sod, 

And bears him to heaven, his primitive station- 
Hail, science of Angels ! Theosophy, hail ! 

That shows us the regions of bliss by reflection ; 
Removes from creation's broad mirror the vail, 

Where spirit and matter appear in connection. 

Its breaks on the soul in an ocean of light, 
She starts from her lethargy stretches her pinions, 



WEEPING MARY. 201 

Beholds a new world bursting forth on her sight, 
And, soaring in ecstacy, claims her dominions. 

A sense of original, dignified worth, 

Her bosom expands with sublime exultation ; 

She tastes immortality even on earth, 

In light that eclipses the sun's emanation. 

Be sages and pedants to nature confined, 

As the bat darkly flutters in Luna's pale pres- 
ence ; 
I '11 soar, like the eagle, through regions of mind, 
In the blaze of that Sun which is truth in its 
essence. 



WEEPING MARY. 

IMITATED FROM THE LATIN, IN THE CATHOLIC 
PHAYER-BOOK. 

Weeping Mary, bathed in sorrow, 
Lingered near the scene of horror, 

Where the dying Saviour hung ; 
From whose bursting heart arising, 
Groans of anguish ao;onizin2\ 

Floated e'er his fevered tongue ! 



202 WEEPING MARY. 

Oh what sorrow, deep, unbounded, 
That maternal bosom wounded, 

Once the Saviour's couch of rest ! 
How she wept to see him languish, 
How she trembled for the anguish 

Laboring in his guiltless breast ! 

Who could witness, without weeping, 
Gushing streams of sorrow sweeping 

Down the mother's pallid cheek ? 
Who, with bosom unrelenting, 
Could behold her thus lamenting, 

Looking what no tongue could speak ? 

While such pangs as fiends invented, 
Still her suffering Son tormented, 

Scorn and bruises, stripes and death ; 
She beheld him thus expiring, 
Human friends in fear retiring, 

Whilst in groans he spent his breath ! 

Matchless mercy ! love amazing ! 
Far above our feeble praising, 

Far beyond our humble lays ; 
May its influence never vary, 
Till my heart, like that of Mary, 

Glow with a seraphic blaze. 



NEW JERUSALEM. 203 

Gracious Saviour, now iu glory ! 
Be this sad, affecting story 

Deeply on thy soul imprest ! 
May the scene of such affliction, 
Bring the hardest heart conviction, 

Melt the most obdurate breast ! 



NEW JERUSALEM. 

Rich in mercy, Jesus reigns, 

Heaven owns no other king ; 
Crown him, mortals, in your strains, 

While his matchless grace you sing. 
Angels wake their loftier lays, 

Kindled from celestial fires, 
Humbler spirits bid his praise 

Sweetly flow from silver lyres. 

Mortals ! catch the pleasing strain, 

Gratitude demands the song — 
Jesus builds his church again, 

Where your Babel stood so long. 
Truth divine her wall supports, 

Love has paved her street with gold ; 
See her jasper towers and courts, 

Gates of pearl that never fold. 



204 REGENERATION. 

Pilgrims ! enter and rejoice — 

Here your Saviour holds bis throne ; 
? T is the City of his choice, 

'T is the Church he calls his own. 
Precious gems, on every side, 

Lend new lustre to her charms — 
'T is the Lamb's celestial Bride, 

Smiling in her husband's arms. 



REGENERATION. 

"Blessed is the man who walketh not in the counsel of the un- 
godly," &c. — Psalm i., 1, 2, 3. 

How happy the man who discards from his breast 
The lusts and the passions which daily molest ; 
Who heeds not their counsel or softest persuasion, 
But treats them as foes upon every occasion. 

Though the sunshine of peace such a bosom illume, 
Or nights of temptation involve it in gloom ; 
Whatever his state be, with calm resignation, 
He looks to the Word of his God for salvation. 

And the Word of his God, like a river of truth, 
Gives each young-budding virtue the vigor of 
youth ; 



BRIGHT IS THE WORD. 205 

While practical love is still tempered by reason, 
As the green leaflet decks the ripe fruit in its season. 

Thus regeneration proceeds from the Word, 
If we combat our evils, and trust in the Lord ; 
Then prosper, dear Saviour, each humble endeavor, 
And thine be the glory, for ever and ever ! 



BRIGHT IS THE WORD. 

Bright is the Word, 't is light divine, 
A Sun that will for ever shine, 
To light us o'er the pathless sand, 
From Egypt to the promised land. 
Then swell the anthem to its Author's praise, 
Who through the world extends its cheering rays. 

Clear is the Word, whose living stream, 
Reflecting love's celestial beam, 
Through every sterile desert rolls, 
Imparting life to dying souls ; 
The tree of life adorns its verdant brink, 
It flows to all — and all may freely drink. 

Then let the grateful anthem rise 
To God, the only good and wise, 



206 ON THE CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 

Who bids the heathen hear his voice, 
And in his boundless love rejoice. 
The light shall spread, the bounteous river flow, 
Till all the earth a Saviour's love shall know. 



ON THE CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 

Awake the organ's pealing tone, 
And bid the grateful anthem swell, 

To make Jehovah's goodness known, 
And of his wondrous mercies tell. 

Creator, Father, Saviour, Lord ! 

To raise from hell our fallen race 
He gave himself — he gave his Word, 

And gives us still his quick'ning grace. 

Here, when the seed of truth was cast, 
His saw the tender, trembling shoot, 

And screened it from the wintry blast — 
The vine is his, and his the fruit. 

? T was warmed by Love's celestial ray ; 

While lucid truths, like heavenly clew, 
With liquid pearls begemmed the spray, 

And like an Eden plant it grew. 



SEEK YE THE LORD. 



20t 



This dawning year beholds it grown 
A little vineyard. Lord, to thee 

We yield the fruits — they are thine own : 
The planter, thou — the laborers, we. 

This vineyard now in orders stands, 
Thy laws of order are divine ! 

Accept this tribute at our hands — 
Almighty God, the work was thine. 



SEEK YE THE LORD. 

Ye sons of men, come, seek the Lord, 
While yet he may be found ; 

H '11 meet you in his holy Word, 
Where love and truth abound. 

Call on him while he yet is near 

To hear a sinner's call ; 
A humble penitential tear 

Will never vainly fall. 

Let man forsake the sinner's road, 
Discard each vicious thought, 

Return to Jesus, as his God, 
And be by Jesus taught ; 



208 "FATHER, THOU ART GOOD." 

Then will the Lord his mercy show, 
His pardon freely give ; 

Then man his only good will know, 
And in that knowledge live. 



"FATHER, THOU ART GOOD!" 

" If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto 
your children, how much more shall your father which is in 
heaven, give good things to them that ask him !"— Matt, vii., 11. 

My youngest boy. just five years old, 

Entered my room the other day, 
Who, just before, I had been told, 

Had something which he wished to say. 
With modest grace, he made his bow, 

I marked the tear-drop in his eye, 
And kindly asked him — "Well, what now?'* 

When, sobbing, thus he made reply : — 
" I found that peach delicious food ! 

And I enjoyed it, while at play ; 
My dear papa, oh, you are good ! 

And that is what I had to say." 

It was the gush of gratitude 

That tuned his voice and rilled his eye ; 
" Father of mercies ! thou art good 

To all who dwell beneath the sky." 



THE WIDOW. 209 

This child has taught me how to pray, 
And how express my thanks to thee ; 

What better language can we say, 
Than what this infant said to me ? 



" Father of mercies, thou art good !" 

Is language fraught with filial love, 
Glowing with heartfelt gratitude, 

An incense which thou wilt approve. 
Oh, grant me grace to breathe it still, 

When I would speak my gratitude 
For blessings which my goblet fill — 

u Father of mercies, thou art good !" 



THE WIDOW. 

We parted : oh ! it was a painful hour ! 

Not that I thought him lost to me for ever, 
I knew that mighty love's resistless power 

Would re-unite us, ne'er again to sever ; 
For we are wedded — not as thoughtless mortals, 

Incited only by terrestial views, 
Enter that sacred fane's mysterious portals. 

Our souls are wedded ; that assurance strews 

My widowed path with flowers of fadeless hues. 
II 



210 THE WIDOW. 

Yet is the briefest parting hard ; for love, 
Deprived of wisdom, is a rayless sun ; 

A summer midnight, when no star above 

Throws down one cheering ray; 'tis good, alone, 

Without her partner truth ; or it resembles 
Warm melting charity, intent to bless, 

When without faith to guide her steps, she trembles 
O'er the dark scene of human wretchedness, 
Wondering if Heaven permits or wills distress. 

? T was hard to part ; and while his spirit hovered 
On the cold lips my kisses could not warm, 

I prayed and murmured ; but, alas ! when covered 
By the dark pall, they bore that manly form 

To its cold grave, I lost the pang of sorrow r , 
For reason fled, and Pda dreamless sleep ; 

But woke, in anguish, on the coming morrow, 
No more to murmur, pray, or even weep, 
For grief is ever silent when it 's deep. 

Humbled to earth, my self-upbraiding soul, 
With mental tongue, exclaimed, Thy will be 
done ! 
When, through my bosom, such a feeling stole 

As mocks the power of language ; it was one 
Of those delicious thrills of nameless rapture 
We feel, when conscience, Heaven, and friends 
approve ; 



SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 211 

When earthly joys have lost their power to capture; 
For Reuben's spirit whispered, H Peace, sweet 

dove, 
We' re joined for ever, in Conjwgial Love* 



SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 

Thou, whose eye, with mercy mild, 

Surveys the sinner's bended knee, 
Thou, who wast once a little child, 

As tender and as young as we ; 
Dear Jesus, Saviour, Father, Friend, 

To thee our lisping tongues would raise — 
While humbly at thy feet we bend — 

A song of gratitude and praise. 

'Twas thy creating Word that made 

All things below and all above, 
Where we admiring see displayed 

Thy matchless wisdom, power, and love. 
'T was thy redeeming love that raised, 

Our souls from ruin, sin, and wo ; 
Then let thy holy name be praised, 

By all good children here below. 

* From the Latin term conjugialc, a higher degree of union 
than is understood by the term conjugal, which is from the Latin 
word conjugate. 



212 THE PLEASURES OF RELIGION. 

And may those hearts thy love inclined 

To bless our souls with heavenly light, 
To pour instructions o'er the mind, 

Enshrined in ignorance and night — 
May they enjoy a rich reward, 

In conscious virtue's sweet repast ; 
Oh bless them while on earth, dear Lord, 

And take them to thyself at last. 



ON HEARING A SERMON ON THE PLEASURES 
OF RELIGION. 

Wsen o'er the sacred desk, with modest grace 

And lowly meekness, bends thy reverend form, 
While the great theme that animates thy face, 
Bids every bosom glow with transport warm — 

How could I listen to the heavenly theme, 
Forget the pleasures that entice me here, 

Think human life a transitory dream, 

And wish, with thee, to gain a higher sphere ! 

Go on, thou champion in the cause of truth, 
Armed by thy Saviour, still the foe engage ; 

Still charm from vice the steps of ardent youth, 
And strew with rosy hopes the path of age. 



FAITH. 213 



FAITH. 

My little girl, the other day, 

(Three years of age a month ago,) 
Wounded her finger while at play, 

And saw the crimson fluid flow. 
With pleading optics, raining tears, 

She sought my aid, in terror wild ; 
I smiling said, " Dismiss your fears, 

And all shall soon be well, my child." 
Her little bosom ceased to swell, 

While she replied with calmer brow, 
" I know that you can make it well, 

But how, papa? — I don't see how." 

Our children oft instruct us thus ; 

For succor, or for recompense, 
They look with confidence to us, 

As we should look to Providence. 
For each infantile doubt and fear, 

And every little childish grief, 
Is uttered to a parent's ear, 

With full assurance of relief. 
A grateful sense of favors past, 

Incites them to petition now, 



214 THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 

With faith in succor to the last, 
Although they can 't imagine how. 

And shall I doubt ingly repine, 

When clouds of dark affliction lower ? 
A tenderer Father still is mine, 

Of greater mercy, love, and power : 
He clothes the lily, feeds the dove, 

The meanest insect feels his care ; 
And shall not man confess his love, 

Man, his own offspring, and his heir ? 
Yes, though he slay, 1 7 11 trust him still, 

And still with resignation bow ; 
He may relieve, he can, he will — 

Although I can not yet see how. 



THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 

Behold yon orbs, in paths harmonious, run 
Their destined courses round the parent sun ; 
Grand correspondent of that Sun above, 
Whose light is wisdom, and whose heat is love. 
There terra rolls — a speck upon the sky, 
Less than a speck to some more distant eye ; 
Suppose, that on the surface of that ball 
Myriads of little thinking insects crawl, 



THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 215 

Whose trembling spark of life, at longest, burns 
While round the sun they make an hundred turns 
And then expire ; suppose your eye could trace 
The various movements of this tiny race ; 
Suppose you saw a few ambitious mites 
Attempt to lord it o'er their fellows' rights ; 
Or viewed a host, who placed their hope and trust 
In hoarding glittering grains of yellow dust ; 
Or thousands, whose ambition but aspired 
To see their gaudy hues awhile admired ; 
Or millions, whose less innocent intents, , 
Concentrate in the groveling joys of sense — 
Would you not think they marred their Maker's 

plan? 
Then blush, proud mortal — such, alas ! is man : 
Such follies, or such crimes, apply to all 
The busy insects of our native ball — 
And were not aid divine in mercy given, 
Each had for ever lost his destined heaven. 

But think not, vainly, that the human race 
Is limited to such contracted space ; 
Dream not that those bright orbs were set on high, 
To run their various courses through the sky, 
For ornament alone — ignoble thought, 
To reason listen, and be better taught ! 
Know that Eternal Love conceived the plan, 
And love eternal rests at last on man ; 



216 THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 

For each effect its energies produce, 
Is wrought by wisdom, and its end is use ; 
Hence learn that every moving, twinkling light 
That decks the azure vault of heaven at night, 
Is round a central sun resistless hurled, 
Itself a ponderous globe — a peopled world : 
A world, perhaps, unstained by crime or blood, 
Where social love prefers its neighbor's good ; 
Where every joy derives its sweetest zest 
From the fond wish of making others blest ; 
Where heaven-born charity exerts her powers — 
A world of bliss, as man might render ours. 
Such peopled orbs in countless numbers fly 
In never-varying order through the sky ; 
And all with one accordant voice proclaim, 
The power which made and still supports thei 
frame. 

Presumptuous Atheist ! if such wretch exist, 
Can thy vain reasoning proofs like these resist ? 
Say, can these planets, in harmonious dance, 
Perform their revolutions thus by chance ? 
Perish the thought ! — rise from thy native clod. 
Renounce thy error, and confess a God ! 
For though with every mortal honor clad, 
" An undevout Astronomer is mad ;" 
Conviction seals thy lips — presume no more, 
But in mute wonder tremble and adore. 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 217 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY BURIAL-PLACE, IN SCITUATE, 
.MASSACHUSETTS. 

[a juvenile production.] 

Aurora paints the orient skies with light, 
With rosy pencil tinges every cloud, 

Unfolds her gates upon the rear of Night, 
And strips the mountains of his sable shroud. 

The conscious stars conceal their twinkling fires, 
Night's waning impress turns more sickly pale, 

Her votary the whizzing bat retires, 

The owl suspends her harsh complaining tale. 

The lark awakes and tunes his matin song, 
And ail the sylvan warblers join the theme ; 

The whistling ploughman drives his team along, 
And sporting swans sail stately down the stream. 

Adieu, dull couch ! for Nature more can please, 
While o'er her rich enamelled breast I stray, 

Inhaling sweets which freight the balmy breeze, 
Stolen in kisses from the lips of May. 



218 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.; 

The peach -bloom in the breathing zephyr plays, 
And shakes soft odors from its silken leaves ; 

The apple, too, a silver garb displays, 

Whence morning's breath a rich perfume re- 
ceives. 

Here let me stray, adown this mossy ridge ; 

Observe yon streamlet o'er the pebbles creep ; 
Pass o'er its little, rude-constructed bridge, 

To where, in silence, all our fathers sleep. 

Oh may I never pass this sacred spot, 

Unmindful of the dust these walls enclose : 

For here, partaking in the common lot, 
A tender Mother's relics find repose ! 

Here various stones, on various models planned, 
Discriminate between the rich and poor ; 

Some richly sculptured by an artist's hand, 
Some rudely lettered, and adorned no more. 

But filial love and sorrow soon discern 
The humble state they consecrated here ; 

The drooping willow weeping o'er the urn, 
The quoted motto, and the name most dear. 

Yes 't is the same — beneath this turfy heap 
Lowly reclines the form which gave me birth ; 



my mother's grave. 219 

Those arms, the cradle of my earliest sleep, 
Are nerveless now, and mingling with the earth. 

Those lips, whose accents could my cares remove, 
Are sealed in silence, stiffened, cold, and dead ! 

Those eyes, which beamed with fond, maternal love, 
Are closed in darkness, and their lustre fled. 

Oh, dear departed ! venerable shade ! 

If earthly objects can thy notice claim, 
Accept the tribute filial love has paid, 

The pearly gem that glitters on thy name. 

Though five sad years their destined course have run, 
Since death confined thy mortal body here, 

Yet can not thy poor, sorrowing, orphan son, 
Review the spot unmoistened with a tear. 

Hard fate forbade, when nature's tenderest ties 
"Where severed by the lingering stroke of death, 

That filial love should close thy sunken eyes, 
Or from thy lips to kiss the parting breath. 

Forgive thy son, indulgent parent, this, 
As he forgives the fate he could not move; 

Though oft in duty he has been remiss, 

This last neglect was not from want of love. 



220 MY MOTHER'S CxRAVE. 

For, weeks before, when wasting nature knew 
The struggle fruitless for her forfeit breath, 

Thy wish I heard, and with impatience flew 
To kiss thy cheek before it sunk in death. 

When faithful memory recalls with pain 
This last, sad duty which I paid to thee — 

A final parting, ne'er to meet again, 

Till from the world and its corruptions free — 

I feel the son in all my moving soul ; 

How truly so, these starting tears reveal ; 
The sacred drops shall meet with no control ! 

Affection's tear what son would e'er conceal ? 

Then was the mother all alive in thee ; 

What wholesome counsel from thy lips I drew — 
Which in my breast shall ever treasured be — 

The only legacy I had from you ! 

Since then, dear parent, Joy has seldom smiled 
Upon thy son — severe has been his fate — 

The world was new — an inexperienced child 
Its friendship sought — but only gained its hate ! 

He hoped from Fortune but a cheering smile, 
But like the world she frowned upon his claim ; 

He then pursued a fleeting shade awhile — 
But broke a bubble when he grasped at Fame ! 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVK. 221 

His only respite, now, from mental pain, 
Is o'er his native rural scenes to roam ; 

A view of this sequestered spot to gain, 
Or when away to think of thee and home ! 

The green turf swells above thy mouldering clay, 
The moss has strewed it with the softest felt ; 

The violets here their loveliest hues display, 
To deck the bed on which he oft has knelt. 

This humble stone, which fond affection placed, 
To mark the spot, and to preserve thy name, 

Though by a rude, unlettered artist traced, 
On his regard has more than marble's claim. 

Sacred to thee for ever may it stand ; 

Forbear, Time ! the tablet to destroy, 
Whose lay disarms the king of terror's hand — 

"Death is the gate to everlasting joy" 

This truth believed, no more shall baseless fear 
Attend the word that speaks of leaving earth ; 

We seek for happiness — it dwells not here ; 
In heaven alone are joys of lasting worth. 

Here some repose who scarce received their birth, 
Ere death consigned them to the silent tomb ; 

Small, though sufficient, is their lot of earth — 
The flowers, transplanted, will for ever bloom. 



222 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

'No age is free from Death's insatiate bow, 
His shafts are levelled, and his victims fall ! 

The rose of infancy, or fourscore snow, 
Alike avail not, he must conquer all. 

Those rustic biers against the wall reclined, 
The wasting bearers of the archer's prey, 

Impress this serious truth upon the mind — 
Existence is not certain for a day ! 

How oft this pious, all-important theme 

Hast thou impressed upon thy listening boy, 

My much-loved mother! — but the playful dream 
Of childhood, pictured only scenes of joy. 

Then would we come, my little sisters too, 

And one fond brother, through this yard to stray ; 

Our destined beds beneath the sod to view, 
Survey these stones, and read the uncouth lay. 

Then, as the shades of evening veiled the plains, 
Back to yon mansion we would gayly stroll, 

The humble benefice which still sustains 
The careful guardian of the Christian soul. 

Beneath that roof I first inhaled the air, 

Poor were my parents, hard they earned their 
bread, 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 223 

Rich only in a reputation fair, 

And oicned no mansion where to lay the head. 

Along yon streamlet, where the whispering reeds 
And fragrant flags upon its borders play, 

Where through those cedars it meandering leads, 
My infant footsteps first were taught to stray. 

And how a mothers tender, anxious care, 
Has oft deprived me of this little joy ! 

The last love-pledge of this connubial pair, 
Their fears were ever wakeful for the boy. 

The sylvan muse enticed me to her cell, 

My childish fingers wantoned o'er her lyre — 

Bade the rude strain, untaught, to wildly swell, 
While to the sound each throbbing pulse beat 
higher. 

Then as I grew and learned to sweep the strings 
By art directed, though less sweetly wild, 

I envied not the happiest of kings, 

My lyre was bliss, and I a happy child. 

But why recount the joys of childhood o'er ? 

That happy state with all its joys has fled! 
As fade the beauties of the tender flower, 

When Winter beats upon its drooping head. 



224 MY mother's grave. 

But see ! the ocean sparkles on the sight, 
What lovely hues upon its surface play ! 

The liquid mirror streams with dazzling light, 
Reflecting from the rising god of day. 

He comes ! and Nature hails his gladd'ning beams, 
New life pervades her animated part ; 

Nor less improved the vegetable seems, 

Its charms increase, and laugh at mimic art. 

Xot long ago, adown the western skies 

He sank, and left the mourning world in gloom; 

But only sank at night, again to rise, 

In tenfold splendor, from his watery tomb. 

So, though we sink beneath the verdant sod, 
And leave our friends in mounful weeds and tears, 

We only sink to rise and dwell with God 
An age unmeasured by successive years. 

There we shall meet, dear mother, yet again ! 

Thou art but gone before a little while ; 
There joy is endless, unalloyed with pain, 

There an eternal round of summers smile. 

Fly swift, ye winged hours, and be my lot 

To count but few, ere death shall aim the dart: 

Then lowly let me rest beneath this spot, 
And lose the anguish of an aching heart. 



SHE IS NOT HERE. 225 

Short be my life, yet then, if sorrows count, 
A lengthened age should clothe my head in snow ; 

Oh could my virtues gain but their amount, 
Perfection would have once been found below. 

Adieu, dear spot ! necessity commands 

The youth who loves you far from hence away ! 

But while a thought of home his breast expands, 
Your dear remembrance never can decay ! 



SHE IS NOT HERE. 

She is not here — 'tis but her veil of clay 
That moulders into dust beneath this stone ; 

Mary herself, in realms of endless day, 
Has put a robe of fadeless glory on. 

This monumental urn is not designed 

To tell of beauties withering in the tomb ; 

Her brightest charms were centred in a mind 
Which still survives, and will for ever bloom. 

Yet may this marble teach the solemn truth. 
That virtue only can true bliss impart ; 

While neither friendship, beauty, health, nor youth, 
Can shield the breast from death's insatiate ckirt. 
1? 



226 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

In life's parterre, what numerous germs disclose 

The loveliest tints, the sweetest blushing dyes! 
The enraptured florist views the opening rose, 
Screens it from every ruder wind that blows, 

And richer future charms in embryo espies. 
But, ah ! the spoiler stalks abroad, whose breath 
Is pestilence, whose chilling touch is death ! 

With merciless hand he crops the flower, 
And all its promised beauty flies — 

It falls beneath his baneful power, 

Its sweets are scattered in an hour ; 
It shrinks, it withers, droops, and dies. 
Yet, mourn not, ye, whose fostering love and care 

To culture a beloved plant has failed ; 
'Tis but transplanted to a garden, where 
Eternal summer smiles ; 't will flourish there 

In living hues, by spoilers unassailed. 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 227 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Almighty God! 'tis right, 'tis just, 
That earthly frames should turn to dust ; 
But, ah ! forgive the wishful tear, 
That would detain a spirit here. 

Go, gentle babe, to realms of bliss, 
The chastening rod we humbly kiss ; 
Thy Saviour calls thee home, my son, 
And let his holy will be done. 

Thy earthly form, now icy cold, 
Was framed in beauty's fairest mould ; 
But now, prepared by love divine, 
A fairer, brighter form is thine. 

Thy earthly parents loved tb.ee well — 
So much, that language fails to tell; 
But, ah ! our love was weak and poor, 
Thy heavenly Parent loves thee more. 

Here, thou wert tenderly caressed, 
Upou a fond maternal breast ; 



228 ON THE DEATH OF AX INFANT. 

But angel-nurses, forms of love, 
Shall now caress my babe above. 

Fain would paternal love have taught 
Thy little opening world of thought ; 
But we the pleasing task resign 
To heavenly schools, and books divine. 

'T was all our thoughts and wishes still 
To guard our darling here from ill ; 
But that great God who called thee home, 
Has saved from greater ills to come. 

Then let us hush the rising sigh, 
And bid affliction's tear be dry ; 
Our child still lives, his sorrows o'er, 
Where we shall meet to part no more. 

There, shall the sweet maternal kiss, 
Increase his joy — enhance his bliss ; 
There, through redeeming love and grace, 
The father shall his son embrace. 

Almighty God ! H is right, 't is just, 
That earthly frames should turn to dust ; 
But, oh ! the sweet, transporting truth — 
The soul shall bloom in endless youth. 



FLORIAN A MONODY. 229 



FLORIAN — A MONODY. 

My lyre, which erst to friendship tuned, I woke 

In strains the sacred theme inspired, 
While with its flame the glowing chords were fired, 
Ah ! sad exchange ! the tie of friendship broke, 
By death dissolved, must make its sadder theme! 
While every falling note with wo shall teem ! 
To Florian's early fate the muse shall pay 

Sincere affection's purest lay ; 
The emanation of a grief-fraught soul, 
The real feelings of an honest heart, 
Unfeigned, and unadorned by art, 
Who all her paler hues from Nature stole. 

Ye youths, ye virgin train, 
Whose eyes to his responsive smiled, 
When festive rites the hours beguiled, 
With me complain ! 
Me, whom the closer link of friendship joined 
To his expanded heart — where truth, combined 
With every glowing grace, superior shone ; 
With me commingle sympathetic tears, 



230 FLOIUAN A MONODY 

While faithful Memory shall own 
His worth, his virtues, past ! 
She bids retrace the journey of his years, 
Review the path, nor see a blemish cast. 



Flushed by the balmy spring of youth, he rose, 
In life's parterre, a flower of fairest hue ; 
Denied affection's fostering, pearly dew, 
Parental sunshine — yet his tints disclose 

Beauty internal — fragrance all his own ; 
Benevolence conspicuous shone, 
And nectared charity distilled 
In grateful odors ! — Who beheld him bloom 

And yet their love withheld ? 
Who, could they have foreseen his early doom, 

But would have shed anticipated tears ; 
Withheld the victim from the insatiate tomb, 
If prayers could hold, for many, many years ? 

But prayers, nor youth, nor virtue, nought avail 
Against diseases, ministers of death ! 
The tyrant claims our forfeit breath, 
And who his claim withstands? Entreaties fail! 
One gift alone can make us scorn the foe, 

Though not his shaft evade ; 
The heavenly gift our Saviour brought below, 
Religion, sweet, celestial maid ! 



FLORTAN A MONODY. 231 

By thee sustained, the darkened path grows 

bright, 
And leads to realms of everlasting light ! 
Cease, then, my tears, to flow, 
Cease, sighs, to murmur wo, 
This peerless guide my friend secured, 
While he the ills of life endured ; 
Cheered by a seraph's song, 
The youth she led along 
The gloomy path — its roughness fled, 
And Terror hid his grisly head ; 
The gate of Paradise displayed 
Cherubs in robes of light arrayed : 
And songs re-echoed through the empyreal dome, 
As heavenly minstrels hailed him welcome home ! 

But selfish Sorrow will intrude — 
The loss is ours — and Nature will be heard 
Till Sorrow is subdued 

By cooler Reason's un impassioned sway ; 
The worth we loved, the virtues we revered, 

We must lament when torn away. 
So young, to fall ! but youth, as hoary age, 

Finds no respect ! The infant dies 
When scarcely entered on the stage ; 

His part to ope, and then to close his eyes. 
Some claim a longer scene, and bustle round 
Their little walk, with rant and sound ; 



232 FLORIAN A MONODY. 

The curtain drops, and they are seen no more ! 

Few labor onward through the tedious play 
Till life's allotted, farthest verge is o'er, 

Then fall like fruit when autumn melts away. 
Thus is it ordered, Order's Source to please ; 
Who will impeach his infinite decrees ? 

Granted, 'tis just — yet sympathy must weep — 
To see him hastening to the silent dead 
Without a kindred tear of sorrow shed ! 

Nor bosom where to fall asleep ! 
Nor hand to close his eyes ! 

Strangers that mournful task performed ! 
Yet strangers here were friends ; their tears, their 

sighs, 
From bosoms flowed by purest feelings warmed. 

Friends tied by nature could no more ; 

Nor more sincerely such a loss deplore. 

Might fond fraternal offices assuage 
The pangs of sore disease ? — these too denied ! 

For ah ! a brother still of lesser age, 
At distance languished, while his brother died! 

No tender sister weeping o'er his bed ! 

No anxious father soothing with his love ! 
No mother ! God ! I touch a tender string ! 

My heart's acutest nerve — its vital thread ; 

Struck too unkindly, tears of crimson move, 
And wakened sorrow whets her blunted sting \ 



BLRGIAG LINKS. -33 

Oh, grant, ye powers thai rale the lives of all, 
If I am doomed, like htm I mourn, to fall — 
Far from the bosom of my home, 
Where fate may call, and I may roam — 
Oh, grant my wish — may hearts like those which 
bled 
O'er Florian's corse, mourn too for me ; 
Such be the strangers round my bed ; 
Such be the tears they shed 
Whoe'er they be : 
Such be the sacred care my ashes find, 
When death has closed the scene : 
Such be the impression on the youthful mind, 
When followers round my grave convene ; 
But more than all — may I, like him, arise, 
Aud join my friend in worlds beyond the skies. 



ON THE DEATH OF MISS ANNA GREENLEAF. 

Her guardian angel, who had roved 
Through scenes of heavenly bliss, 

Hovered around the child she loved, 
To steal affection's kiss. 



"A lovely girl !" the child exclaimed, 
"A beauteous form I see, 



234 ELEGTAC LINES. 

A messenger with love inflamed, 
And she has come for me !" 

Her mother closed the infant's eyes, 

Who'd meekly suffered much ; 
And Anna's spirit sought the skies, 

Led by seraphic touch. 

a What bringst thou then ?" the Saviour said- 

The messenger replies : — 
" A Green leaf rising from the dead, 

To bloom in paradise I" 

His arms did then her form enfold, 
And said, " My word was given, 

When I sojourned on earth of old, 
That suck should people heaven ! 

" Then welcome, meek one, thou hast loved, 

With filial love, thy duty, 
And now from earth thou art removed, 

Here thou shall bloom in beauty." 



EPITAPHS. 235 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A YOUTH. 



On, that the icy touch of death should blight, 
Just iu the bloom of youth, a form so bright ; 
When smiling hope illumed a cultured mind, 
Rich in endowments of the fairest kind ! 
By all respected, by the good approved, 
By kindred hearts, how tenderly beloved ! 
Yet, cease to mourn — for virtue can not die — 
The youth still lives in realms beyond the sky. 



ON A WIFE AND MOTHER. 

'Tis filial love that consecrates this earth 
To female virtue and maternal worth ; 
Sacred to one who filled the parts of life, 
As daughter, sister, mother, friend, and wife. 
And filled them well, through each successive stage, 
From playful childhood to declining age ; 
Till mercy whispered to her soul — ''Well done! 
Enter to bliss, thou good and faithful one P 



EPITAPHS. 
AH ! SEEK NOT READER. 



Ah! seek not reader, worth like Lis to leant 
From chiselled tablet, or a " storied urn ;" 
For who to senseless marble can impart 
The faintest impress of an angel's heart ? 
The widowed hand which consecrates this stone, 
Would make her love, not his perfections known ; 
For all a husband, parent, friend, should be, 
All heaven approves, or man admires, was he. 



ON AN INFANT. 

Stain not this urn with sorrow's tear, 
Nought but a blighted leaf is here ; 
The cherished flower, not fully blown, 
Its opening beauties scarcely known, 
Was severed from its earthly stem, 
To deck an angel's diadem. 



ON A CHARMING AND MUCH LAMENTED FEMALE. 

This humble stone is meant to show 
That Anna's vesture lies below ; 
But she who wore it — she we love, 
Is in her bridal dress above. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A COLLOQUY WITH THE MUSE.* 

The muse and myself, the other day, 

Held a short colloquy together ; 
For she sometimes calls, when she comes that way, 
Though scarcely a moment she deigns to stay, 
And seldom has anything to say, 
Save, " how d'ye do — what news to-day ! 

*T is really charming weather." 

She found me alone, iu my elbow chair — 

One arm has long been broken — 
In the attic, George — you well know where, 
For once, last summer, I saw you there, 
When you kindly offered to pay my fare, 

* This and the two following poems were, by the author, " ad- 
dreasod to my friend, George P. Morris, Esq." 



238 A COLLOQUY WITH THE .MUSE. 

If I'd brush my coat, and with you repair 
To breathe a mouthful of country air, 
On the heights of green Hoboken. 

As I said before, her ladyship came, 

En dishabille, as usual, 
In costume resembling the slipshod dame 
Whose Black-look sketches are known to fame. 
Her robe was blue, and her hose the same, 
Her sandals unlaced, and her gait was lame, 
As she entered the room, and pronounced my name 

In a manner and tone fiducial. 

" Good day t'ye, Reuben — do n't ask me to stay, 

For I must hasten home to my toilet ; 
As I go out with Noma a -shopping to-day, 
And Hinda goes with as — besides, I must pay 
A visit to Tliirza — it 's all in oar way, 
And then to Ianthe I've something to say; 
Besides, I must call upon Wet more and Fay, 
And then there would be the Old Nick to pay, 
If I didn't look in upon Morris too — eigh ! 
But now, while I think of it — Reuben, do say, 
Who is that comical Cox? — I will lay 
He is building a fame that will never decay ; 
And so is my favorite Proteus — nay, 
Xo jealousy, Reuben, but win your own bay, 
And never let envv soil it. 



A COLLOQUY WITH THE MUSE. 239 

"Hush! don't interrupt me — there's tender 
Estelle, 
Everard, Lara, and Alpha, and Ionian, 
Isidora, or Harriet — with sweet Isabelle, 

And hundreds of others, are like to excel, 
If they treat me politely. But, Reuben, do tell, 
If I don't appear charming- in this dishabille? 
Say, why the deuce do you grin, man ?" 

"You look," I replied, "both ugly and old, 

In these rascally dishabille dresses ; 
Why, when you are visiting others, I 'm told, 
The finest light gossamer vestures infold 
That form and those limbs of such exquite mould, 
With sandals that sparkle with spangles and gold. 
While a chaplet of roses and diamonds untold, 
Confine those wandering tresses. 

" When others petition, you make reply, 

In numbers of sweetest measure, 
But to me you prate, like a chattering pie, 
Of shopping, and visits, and a few small fry 
Of Mirror contributors — while here, poor I 

In silence must wait your leisure ! 

u Why not on me such favors bestow 
As your other votaries win ? 



240 A COLLOQUY WITH THE MUSE. 

Why prattle to me on subjects so low, 
In a tuneless, senseless din ?" 

M Why, then, you must know," 

She said with a smile, 
u That, when here below, 

I adapt my style 
To the company I am in. 

"But, jesting apart, what is it you claim? 

I '11 grant you the boon, I swear it : 
That is, if I'm able — come, give it a name." 
"Then fire me, at once," I replied, "with the flame 
That animates Halleck, and lights him to fame ; 
To a like dazzling summit direct my aim, 
Procure for my numbers an equal acclaim ; 
Secure me a chaplet as bright — not the same, 

And teach me as humbly to wear it." 

She smiling replied, while her head she shook — 

II In vain should I bid you take it ; 

For Apollo, when late, with a shepherd's crook, 
He toyed with a maid, by a gurgling brook, 
Had concealed his lyre in a private nook, 
Which Halleck observed, and slyly took, 
And none but Halleck can wake it." 



NAY, ASK HE NOT FOR WIT OR RHYME. 241* 



NAY, ASK ME NOT FOR WIT OR RHYME. 

Nay, ask me not for wit or rhyme, 
While this blue-devil weather lasts, 

The muses shun Columbia's clime 
During the equinoctial blasts. 

Their native home is most serene, 

Where bright and cloudless skies are certain, 
A mountain's-top — as you have seen 

At Chatham Garden, on the curtain. 

They '11 not exchange a scene so fair, 
Their verdant walks and rural sweets, 

To shiver in this misty air, 

And wade along our muddy streets. 

Then let them still enjoy their revels, 
Remote from fiends of every hue, 

For though they smile on some poor devils. 
They never could abide the blue. 

In July last, so hot and dry, 

When some expired for want of brandy, 
16 



242 FASHIONS. 

When not a cloud obscured the sky, 
And fans were worn by every dandy : 

Then would they come, and round my taper, 

En dishabille, inspire me so, 
That, though my sweat bedewed the paper, 

I wrote some melting lines, you know. 

But ask me not for wit or rhyme, 
While this blue-devil weather lasts, 

The muses shun Columbia's clime 
During the equinoctial blasts. 



FASHIONS. 

How fashions change in this inconstant world! 

Powder and queues held undisputed sway 
When I was young ; anon, the hair was curled, 

And, after that, the top-knot had its day. 

The last, I understand, has given way 
To Saunders' plain-cropt crown. So much for 
men — 

The ladies — bless their pretty faces! — may 
Recount a thousand changes to our ten. 
There were the huge crape cushion, hoop, and stays, 

To go no further back ; — my mother wore them 



FASHIONS. . 243 

Before her marriage; — and, in after clays, 
I Ve heard her wish that fashion might restore 
them. 
Short waists, and long, have had alternate sway, 
Since hoops were banished, to the present day. 

And I have prized them all — for I confess, 
'Tis my opinion, that the virtuous fair, 

While they derive no one new charm from dress, 
Impart a charm to every dress they wear. 

But Fashion's freaks, we know, are not confined 
To the habiliments her votaries wear ; 

She even dictates to the immortal mind, 

And deigns to take beneath her tender care 

Celestial genius, fancy, taste, and wit, 

And e'en religion, too, must oft submit ; 

For since great Johnson frowned upon dissenters, 

T is the estallished church that Fashion enters ; 

And were each pun a diamond, she 'd not take 
one, 

Because the doctor had not wit to make one; 

Just as the fox condemned the grapes as sour, 

Because he found them not within his power. 

Mark but the movements of the goddess, through 
A few short years : Moore's Lyrics were in 
fashion, 



244 FASHIONS. 

Till Byron's vision burst upon the view, 

Scattering, from demon wings, a storm of passion. 
Then fashion taught her votaries to adore 

The idol which tempestuous clouds environ, 
And left the sweet elvsian fields of Moore, 

To wander o'er the Upas realms of Byron, 
With bones of human victims covered o'er, 
Or to the snow-capt mountain trembling soar, 
Where huge volcanoes vomit quenchless flame, 
Fierce as his soul, and brilliant as his fame. 

Scott was, awhile, the star of the ascendant, 

(If Scott wrote Waverley and Kenilworth), 
And dazzled with a glory as resplendent 
As ever beamed upon the moral earth 
Since Shakespeare lived, whose magic pen 
Explored the very souls of men : 
Like his, for painting character and passion, 
The muse of Waverley was long in fashion. 

With all such changes in proud Albion's clime, 
Allowing, say a month, for transportation, 

Their humble parasites have here kept time, 

In dress and morals, taste and conversation. 

? T is true, our wondrous spirit of invention 
Has added to the stock of information, 

And there are some improvements I could mention, 
That add new lustre to our reputation. 



FASHIONS. 245 

Awhile ago, and Greece was all the rage, 

That is, we felt enraged against the Turks, 
And every daily paper had a page 

Filled up entirely with their bloody works — 
With battles, massacres, heroic deeds, 

And self-devotedness of patriot men, 
And cruelties at which the bosom bleeds, 

When memory calls the picture back again. 
Wives, mothers, maids, compelled to slay them- 
selves, 
Or yield to these infernal turbaned elves. 

One general burst of honest indignation 

Was heard throughout the land ; our public 
halls 
Echoed to strains of lofty declamation, 

Or sweeter strains of fiddles — for our balls, 
And every other pastime, were intended 
To aid the cause which Grecian arms defended. 
To save their sisters from such cruel foes, 

Our patriot ladies danced with ceaseless ardor, 
As some say masses for the sake of those 

Whose destiny below is somewhat harder. 
Whole families were doomed to starve for weeks, 

(Who had no banker whom to draw for cash 
on), 
For splendid dresses worn to aid the Greeks ! 

But, recollect, the Greeks were then in fashion. 



246 FASHIONS. 

Fayette, who helped to make Columbia free, 

The man whom free-born millions now revere, 
Great Lafayette, the friend of Liberty, 

Has been in fashion more than half a year ; 
And will be so for centuries, no doubt, 

For millions yet unborn shall shout his name, 
And seek the dangerous path he singled out 

To reach the summit of immortal fame. 

Canals are much in vogue at present, though 

'T was once the fashion to oppose them ; 
From Maine to Georgia now, they 're all the go, 

And half her real wealth Columbia owes them. 
E'en Darien, whose adamantine throne 

Still dares two kindred oceans to divide, 
Is doomed to see its empire overthrown, 

And commerce o'er its ruins proudly ride. 

But there's one fashion I must not forget 

On this occasion — one that 's worth commending, 
And justly venerated, you'll admit, 

For its antiquiiy ; — 'tis that of sending 
To some one we esteem on Xew Year's day 
A short, familiar, tributary lay, 

Such as I now address to you, 
Deficient both in sentiment and passion, 

But ending with kind wishes, warm and true — 
Accept it, George — for I must be in fashion. 



CANAL CELEBRATION ODE. 247 

May every bliss that Heaven can give be yours, 
While the brief term of human life endures ; 
Domestic joys, a moderate share of wealth, 
Contented mind, vivacity, and health ; 
Friends that are faithful, able, and refined, 
Children obedient — consort true and kind; 
The will and means the child of want to save, 
And thus secure a fund beyond the grave. 
If these be yours, there can not be a fear 
But you will hail with joy the infant year. 



AN ODE, 

FOR THE GRAND CANAL CELEBRATION, NOV. 4, 1825. 

'Tis done, 'tis done! — The mighty chain 
Which joins bright Erie to the Main, 
For ages, shall perpetuate 
The glory of our native state. 

T is done ! — Proud Art o'er Nature has prevailed ! 

Genius and perseverance have succeeded! 
Though selfish Prejudice assailed, 

And honest Prudence pleaded. 

Tis done ! — The monarch of the briny tide, 
Whose giant arm encircles earth, 



248 CANAL CELEBRATION ODE. 

To virgin Erie is allied, 

A bright-eyed nymph of mountain birth. 

To-day, the sire of Ocean takes 
A sylvan maiden to his arms, 

The goddess of the crystal lakes, 
In all her native charms ! 



She comes ! attended by a sparkling train ; 

The Naiads of the West her nuptials grace ; 
She meets the sceptred father of the main, 
And in his heaving bosom hides her virgin face 
Rising from their watery cells, 
Tritons sport upon the tide, 
And gayly blow their trumpet-shells, 

In honor of the bride. 
Sea-nymphs leave their coral caves, 
Deep beneath the ocean waves, 
Where they string, with tasteful care 
Pearls upon their sea-green hair. 

Thetis' virgin train advances, 
Mingling in the bridal dances ; 
Jove, himself, with raptured eye, 
Throws his forked thunders by, 
And bids Apollo seize his golden lyre, 
A strain of joy to wake ; 



CANAL CELEBRATION ODE. 249 

While Fame proclaims that Ocean's sire 
Is wedded to the goddess of the lake. 
The smiling god of song obey-, 
And heaven re-echoes with his sounding lays. 

I All hail to the Art which unshackles the soul ! 

And iires it with love of glory ! 
And causes the victor, who reaches the goal, 
To live in deathless story ! 

H Which teaches young Genius to rise from earth, 

On Fancy's airy pinion, 
To assert the claims of its heavenly birth, 

And seize on its blest dominion. 

"The Art which the banner of Truth unfurled, 
When darkness veiled each nation, 

And prompted Columbus to seek a new world 
On the unexplored map of creation. 

II Which lighted the path of the pilgrim band, 

Who braved the storms of ocean, 
To seek, in a wild and distant land, 
The freedom of pure devotion. 

" Which kindled, on Freedom's shrine, a flame 
That will glow through future ages, 

And cover with glory and endless fame 
Columbia's immortal sages. 



250 CANAL CELEBRATION ODE. 

"The Art which enabled her Franklin to prove, 

And solve each mystic wonder ! 
To arrest the forked shafts of Jove, 

And play with his bolts of thunder. 

11 The Art, which enables her sons to aspire, 

Beyond all the wonders in story. 
For an unshackled press is the pillar of fire 

Which lights them to Freedom and Glory. 

' ; T is this which called forth the immortal decree, 
And gave the great work its first motion; 

'T is done ! by the hands of the brave and free, 
And Erie is linked to the Ocean. 

" Then hail to the Art which unshackles the soul, 

And fires it with love of glory, 
And causes the victor who reaches the goal, 

To live in deathless story." 

Such strains — if earthly strains may be 

Compared to his who tunes a heavenly lyre — 

Are warbled by the bright-haired deity, 
While listening orbs admire. 

Such strains shall unborn millions yet awake, 
While, with her golden trumpet, smiling Fame 

Proclaims the union of the main and lake, 
And on her scroll emblazons Clinton's name. 



THE GRAND CAXAL. 251 



THE GRAND CANAL. 

^YuILF. millions awaken to Freedom the chorus, 

In wreathing for valor the blood-sprinkled bay, 
The new brilliant era which opens before us, 

Demands the rich tribute of gratitude's lay; 
For ours is a boast unexampled in story, 

Unequalled in splendor, unrivalled in grace, 
A conquest that gains us a permanent glory, 

The triumph of science o'er matter and space! 
For realms that were dreary, are now smiling 

cheery, 
Since Hudson and Erie like sisters embrace. 

From heroes whose wisdom and chivalrous bearing 

Secured us the rights which no power can repeal, 
Have spirits descended as brilliantly daring, 

To fix on the charter Eternity's seal. 
Behold them consummate the giant conception, 

Unwearied in honor's beneficent race, 
While nature submits to the daring surreption, 

And envy and ignorance shrink in disgrace. 
For realms that were dreary, are now smiling 

cheery, 
Since Hudson and Erie like sisters embrace. 



252 THE GRAND CANAL. 

The nymphs of our rivers, our lakes, and our foun- 
tains, 

Are now by the monarch of ocean caressed ; 
While spurning the barriers of forests and moun- 
tains, 

Bold Commerce enriches the wilds of the West. 
Then hail to the sages, whose wisdom and labors 

Conceived and perfected the brilliant design ; 
Converting the remotest strangers to neighbors, 

By weaving a ligament nought can disjoin ; 
For regions once drear} 7 , are now smiling cheery, 
Since Hudson and Erie like their waters combine. 

And long, thus devoted to festival pleasure, 

This day shall be sacred to genius and worth, 
For millions unborn shall rejoice at a measure, 

Which renders our country the pride of the earth. 
No sectional feelings now mar our communion, 

Affection and interest are reckless of space, 
The national good is the bond of our union, 

Which ages shall brighten but never deface. 
For realms that were dreary, are now smiling 

cheery, 
Since Hudson and Erie like sisters embrace. 



durant's address. 253 



DURANTE ADDRESS. 

ON ASCENDING WITH A BALLOON FROM CASTLE GARDEN. 

" I 'm for the air" — 't is sweet to fly 
On silken pinions, towards the sky, 
To leave a world of strife and wo 
With all its follies far below ; 
While bending, Godlike, from my car, 
Responsive to the loud huzza ! 
With Freedom's flag of various hue, 
I wave the wondering crowds adieu ! 

"I 'm for the air" — 'tis sweet to rise 
Above the proud, the great, the wise ; 
'Tis pleasant to look down and see 
Admiring thousands gaze at me ! 
'T is transport o'er their heads to soar, 
Who downward looked on me before ; 
Ambition's bliss must be complete, 
With all the world beneath its feet ! 

"I'm for the air" — where science hath 
Opened a bright effulgent path ; 



254 THE AERONAUT'S ADDRESS. 

And though my car, this time, must sail 
Obedient to the passing gale, 
Have patience, and no distant day. 
Shall see me steer another way; 
Across the current shape my course, 
Or, like the eagle, stem its force. 

"I'm for the air" — ye sons of earth, 
With spirits of ethereal birth ; 
Could thanks in real blessings fall, 
I 'cl pour a deluge on you all. 
But fare you well ! I mount — I fly ! 
This, Science, is thy victory ! 
Hail to a scene sublimely grand ! 
Hail ! — hail Columbia ! happy land ! 



THE AERONAUT'S ADDRESS. 

Good-bye to you, people of earth, 

I am soaring to regions above you ; 
But much that I know of your worth, 

Will ever induce me to love you. 
Perhaps I may touch at the moon, 

To give your respects as I pass, sirs, 
And learn if the spheres are in tune, 

Or if they are lighted with gas, sirs. 



THE AERONAUT'S ADDRESS. 255 

I will measure those mystical tilings 

That encircle the spherule of Saturn, 
With Jupiter's belts and his rings, 

And draw out a chart for a pattern. 
Then take my departure for Mars, 

Perhaps I 'II look down upon Venus ; 
Then mount to the galaxy stars, 

And leave all the planets between us. 

The light, milky-way I will trace, 

Then, while I am travelling from it, 
Through unexplored regions of space, 

I Ml seize on the tail of a comet. 
The zodiac circle I '11 run, 

Examine the twelve constellations, 
Then count all the spots on the sun, 

And extinguish the north corruscations. 

I then shall descend to the earth, 

And visit the chief of the Tartars, 
Ascertain what his turban is worth, 

And the cost of his favorite's garters. 
At China, I think I '11 take tea, 

At India some fruit I'll regale on, 
And then over mountain and sea, 

To Africa fearlessly sail on. 

I'll visit the French at Algiers, 
Where the lily now flourishes solus, 



256 AX AERONAUT'S FAREWELL. 

And wipe away Portugal's tears, 
By giving Don Miguel a bolus. 

While Ferdinand vainly bewails 
The loss of his Mexican mines, sirs, 

I will call upon Charles at Versailles, 
To taste of his venison and wines, sirs. 

With William the Fourth I will waste 

No language of sycophant flattery, 
But cross the Atlantic in haste, 

And safely return to the battery. 
Then, huzza ! for the sons of the West, 

The country of freedom and honor, 
A home for the brave and opprest, 

May blessings be lavished upon her. 



AN ^RONAUTS FAREWELL. 

A brief farewell to one and all, 

I can no more delay, 
This huge distended silken ball, 

Mast bear me hence away. 
And while I fearlessly soar afar, 

Through trackless fields of blue, 
Columbia's banner o'er my car, 

Shall wave my brief adieu. 



NEWSPAPERS. 257 

Accept my thanks for favors past, 

My hope for more to come, 
For this short flight is not my last, 

If I get safely home. 
Your favor is my polar star, 

My heart will point to you, 
As from my little wicker car 

I wave you all adieu. 

My chariot waits — and yet awhile 

I fondly linger nigh, 
To catch another cheering smile 

From Beauty's sparkling eye. 
A thousand thanks — my buoyant heart, 

Expands with transport new — 
Now — now I 'm ready to depart, 

The cord is cut — adieu ! 



NEWSPAPERS. 

A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF COWPER's TASK. 

T is pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
(So Cowper sang, in strains divinely sweet,) 
To peep at such a world ; and as it turns, 
Survey at ease, the globe and its concerns ; 
To seem advanced to more than mortal height, 

n 



258 newspapers. 

With this vast spherule rolling in your sight ; 
To view the noisy Babel from a cloud, 
Behold the bustle, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the mighty din she sends around, 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Fall a soft, murmur on the uninjured ear, 
And thus to scan the whole without a fear. 
The sound of war, if such a scene you view, 
Loses its terrors ere it reaches you ; 
And desolation, caused by hostile arms, 
Excites your pity, grieves, but not alarms ; 
Perhaps you mourn the avarice and pride 
That render man a cruel fratricide ; 
And at the echo of those thunders start, 
In which he speaks the language of his heart ; 
Perhaps you wonder as it floats around, 
And sigh, but never tremble, at the sound. 

As roves the bee, when vernal flowers expaitf!, 
So roves the traveller from land to land, 
Where manners, customs, policy, and scenes, 
Pay contributions to the stores he gleans ; 
Still like the bee, in Summer's blushing prime, 
He sucks intelligence from every clime ; 
And on returning to his native shores, 
He thus spreads out his hoarded, honied stores, 
And welcomes all — a rich repast for you, 
For, as he travelled, you can travel too ; 



THE ZODIAC. 259 

Ascend his topmast, through his piercing eyes 
Behold new countries in the distance rise : 
With sympathizing feeling, tread his deck, 
Or cling, in terror, to the midnight wreck ! 
With kindred heart, you suffer all his woes, 
Share his escapes, his comforts, and repose. 
Thus may your fancy the great circuit roam, 
"While (like a dial's index) safe at home. 



THE ZODIAC. 

Dfar Julia — Philosophers gravely assert 
That our beautiful world is a spherule of dirt, 
That rolls, in a circuit, through regions of space, 
And passes, each year, through the very same 

place ; 
That while it turns over, by day or by night, 
We scarcely know whether we 're standing up- 
right ; 
But, yet, that our love for it sticks us so fast, 
We can not fall off — but adhere to the last. 

The truth of such doctrine I will not dispute, 
Because I 'in engaged in another pursuit ; 
Besides, since I first crept about this machine, 
Such queer topsy-turvy manceuvres I 've seen, 



260 THE ZODIAC. 

That twenty to one (as the learned have said) 
But mortals are, half the time, heels over head. 
Yet, still, as a poet, you known, I am bound 
To believe that the sun always travels around 
The turnpike of heaven, in chariot of fire, 
Drawn rapidly onward by steeds that ne'er tire, 
Nor stop to refresh, though they pass, as they fly, 
The signs of a dozen fine inns, in the sky. 

When last I addressed you, this bright charioteer 
Was galloping on in his brilliant career, 
The steeds from their nostrils still vomiting flame, 
As past the next stage-house they rapidly came. 
Poor Phcebus in vain might have thirsted for wine, 
For nothing but water appeared on the sign : 
So onward he drove in the bright, starry zone, 
And left the cold, cheerless Aquarius alone. 

The scaly star, Pisces, soon greeted his eye, 
His old stopping-place, if the ancients do n't lie, 
Who counted this stage as the last on his route, 
Its sign is so tempting — a fine salmon trout. 
But soon the fierce steeds left it far in the rear, 
For another, that promised some mutton, was near; 
That Ram which had once a fair rider upon J t, 
And let her fall plump in the famed Hellespont; 
The crooked-horn Aries, whose rich golden fleece 
Was carried by Jason, in triumph, to Greece, 



THE ZODIAC. 261 

Was the sign that invited the driver to bait, 
But nothing, it seems, could induce him to wait ; 
A crack of his whip, and the mettlesome steeds 
Start forward like lightning, while Aries recedes. 

But Phoebus, 'tis said, when he saw the next sign, 
Was almost determined to stop and to dine ; 
For the golden-horned Bull, which so gallantly 

bore 
The lovely Eurojpa to Crete's happy shore, 
Invitingly promised, for hunger's relief, 
A fine, smoking sirloin of English roast beef. 

Apollo, however, regardless of inns, 
Drove onward, nor even accosted the Twins, 
Those famous Tyndarian brothers, that dwell, 
By changes alternate, in heaven or hell ; 
The comrades of Jason in winning the fleece, 
Whose smiles, it is said, lull the tempest to peace. 
If sailors sincerely their favors invoke, 
To save from the wreck which the billows have 

broke. 
Behind were the Crab and the Lion afar, 
As well as the Virgin, Erigone's star ; 
Astrea's bright balance now glowed on his sight, 
It trembled — he threw in a handful of light, 
And finding the darkness just equalled the day, 
He whipped up his horses, and posted away. 



262 THE SEASONS. 

The Scorpion and Centaur he rapidly passed, 
Ami Pan, his old friend, lie saluted at last ; 
For Lis steeds, at the moment these verses were 

wrote, 
Were galloping np to the sign of the Goat. 
In pure, native English, your minstrel would say, 
That another New Year is commencing to-day. 

Dear, Julia, may blessings attend its return, 
While life's little taper continues to burn; 
And then, when the last welcome summons you 

hear, 
May you wake to a happy, thrice happy New Year. 



THE SEASONS. 

Julia — each season of the changeful year, 
In every stage of fleeting Time's career, 
Comes with a wreath of joy around it thrown, 
Some bliss, peculiar to itself alone ; 
For Heaven, throughout creation's wondrous plan, 
Has had but one end — the happiness of man. 

Pregnant with buds and flowers, the Spring 
appears, 
Like a young bride, arrayed in smiles and tears ; 



THE SEASONS. 263 

Then sweetest odors float ou every breeze, 
And new-made liveries clothe the sturdy trees ; 
Eaeli bush and shrub a verdant garb assumes, 
The apple blossoms, and the lilae blooms; 
A thousand flowerets in the meadow spring, 
And feathered choirs their grateful anthems sing; 
While valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, 
Hail, with delight the bright return of May. 

Then Summer comes, the noontide of the year, 
When the sun gallops in his full career ; 
She comes — her brows with yellow wheat-ears 

crowned, 
Her laughing face by heat and toil embrowned ; 
She comes with full and bounteous hand to bring 
All that was promised by the hopeful Spring. 
T is then the long-protracted, sultry day, 
Perfects the embryon blossoms on each spray ; 
Bids the young fruit with richest juices teem, 
And blush and ripen in the solar beam; 
Then scarlet strawberries court the eager taste, 
And luscious melons yield a sweet repast; 
While nectarious berries of each varied dye, 
On every bush and bramble greet the eye. 

Next, temperate Autumn comes upon the stage, 
The sober mean 'twixt vigorous youth and age ; 
The evening twilight of the fading year, 



264 THE SEASONS. 

When objects all in mellowest tints appear ; 
When feathered songster cease their tuneful notes, 
And liveried groves appear with yellow coats ; 
The fruit-trees then, with golden burdens bend, 
And clustering grapes from shadowy vines impend; 
Pomona's treasures lie in heaps around, 
Scattered in rich profusion on the ground ; 
From juicy apples, tortured in the mill, 
Sweet streams of grateful beverage distil ; 
While ponderous wagons every field displays, 
Groaning beneath their loads of ripened maize. 

Winter succeeds, with snow-wreaths on his 
brow — 
Julia, I feel his icy fingers now ! 
Winter succeeds — the midnight of the year, 
And all the fields are barren, cold, and drear ; 
He binds the streams and lakes in silver chains, 
And hoary frost has candied all the plains ; 
The liveried trees their yellow coats forego, 
And shivering stand, in shrouds of frozen snow; 
While the chilled sap leaves succorless the shoot, 
And shrinks below, to cheer the dying root. 

Nor is stern Winter's icy sceptre swayed 
O'er sylvan scenes alone — his shafts invade 
Our splendid t^ity, too — and every street 
Is rendered cheerless by his pointed sleet ; 



THE SEASONS. 265 

For every arrow from the centaur's bow, 
Is tipped with ice, and feathered, too, with snow. 
The Battery, now, each verdant charm has lost, 
And e'en the Park is silvered o'er with frost ; 
Yauxhall and Castle-Garden, late so gay, 
Where night gave place to artificial day, 
Are now deserted — even Chatham mourns, 
And all must droop till gentle Spring returns. 

But still, amid his tempest's rude alarms, 
Still Winter brings his own redeeming charms; 
Pleasures to no preceding season known, 
Delights peculiar to himself aloue. 
His gelid breath (a healthful vapor, which 
Screws up this living lyre to concert-pitch) 
Enriches every fluid, and preserves 
An equal tension of the chords and nerves. 
Elastic as the air, our spirits soar, 
By heat and languor now depressed no more ; 
While health and vigor wanton through our veins, 
And drive each azure demon from the brains. 

But that blest space between the day and night, 
A winter's evening, give the most delight ; 
Sacred to friendship, love, and social mirth, 
When kindred souls surround the blazing hearth, 
Where wine, and wit, and sentiment abound, 
And modest jests and repartees go round. 



266 THE SEASONS. 

Or if the same domestic, happy group, 

Adjourn to hear our new Italian troupe;* 

Or gaze intensely on the tragic scene, 

When Conway, Cooper, Hamblin, Booth, or Kean, 

Pours a bright flood of wonder o'er their minds, 

And in his train the captive stranger binds ; — 

Whether they join in laughing with the pit, 

At Barnes's humor, or at Hilson's wit; 

Tremble at base Iago's cruel hate, 

Or mourn for lovely Belvidera's fate; 

Or weep, at Chatham, for poor Blanche's grief, 

Inflicted by Clan Alpine's desperate chief; 

And then, in pleased and breathless silence, hear 

The requiem chanted o'er his silent bier ; 

Or with the brave Fitz-James, admiring view, 

Fair Ellen guide her little frail canoe ; 

Or view the Ethiop, from the Turkish tomb, 

Rise like a troubled spirit through the gloom ; 

Or should they mingle in the mazy dance, 

Where hearts bound quick at beauty's tender 

glance, 
'T is still domestic bliss, where 'cr they roam, 
For every place, to kindred hearts, is home. 

But Winter's brightest joy, in towns like this, 
Is yet unsung — I mean that scene of bliss 
To which our annual holydays give birth, 

* This epistle was written on Christmas Eve, 1S25. 



THE SEASON'S. 267 

A foretaste of clysium here on earth ! 
That period to generous hearts so dear, 
That iittle week of joy that shuts the year, 
And brings to light the bright auspicious morn, 
When all unite to hail a New Year born ! 

In all my wanderings through this vale of tears, 
From infancy, to manhood's riper years, 
Whatever pains assailed, or griefs oppressed, 
Christmas and New Year always saw me blest! 
A lengthened absence o'er, how pleasant, then, 
The friends I dearest love to meet again! 
Grasp the warm hand, or share the fond embrace, 
And see new smiles lit up in every face! 
r f was Christmas eve! the supper board was spread, 
The fire blazed high, with logs of hickory fed; 
The candles, too, unusual lustre lent, 
Caudles expressly made for this event. 
Old tales were told, the cheerful glass went round, 
While peals of laughter made the cot resound, 
A thousand welcomes hailed the truant boy, 
And swift the moments flew on wings of joy ; 
Till (as they thought, too soon) the hour of prayer 
Bade the young urchins to their beds repair. 
])iit first the stocking, from each little leg, 
jNIust be suspended to a hook or peg, 
That Santa Clans, who travels all the night, 
Might, in the dark, bestow his favors right ; 



268 THE SEASONS. 

These rites observed, they take a parting kiss, 
And go to dream of morning's promised bliss ! 
Thus did a week of festive pleasures roll, 
Till New Year's happy morning crowned the 
whole. 

But though long past are days and joys so 
dear, 
Others as sweet still crown each fleeting year ; 
E'en brighter pleasures, now, 't is mine to prove, 
In Julia's friendship, and my Lydia's love. 
While our gay prattlers, innocent as young, 
Re-act the drama here so coldly sung, 
Accept this token of my pure regard, 
The Seasons, sung by an immortal bard, 
The peerless Thompson ; hear his rural strains, 
And you '11 forget that blustering winter reigns ; 
Accept this tribute of a heart sincere, 
And be you happy many a future year. 



THE FIREMAN. 269 



THE FIREMAN, 

SPOKEN BY MRS. DUFF, FOR THE FIREMEN'S BENEFIT, 
JANUARY 24, 1827. 

Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung 

To the departed day — upon whose bier 
The velvet pall of midnight had been flung, 

And nature mourned through one wide hemis- 
phere. 
Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway, 

Save in the haunts of riotous excess ; 
And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay, 

Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness. 

When lo ! upon the startled ear 
There broke a sound, so dread and drear, 
As, like a sudden peal of thunder, 
Burst the bands of sleep asunder, 
And filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear. 
Hark ! the faithful watchman's cry 
Speaks a conflagration nigh ! 
See ! yon glow upon the sky 
Confirms the fearful tale I 



270 THE FIREMAN. 

The deep-mouthed bells, with rapid tone, 
Combine to make the tidings known ; 
Affrighted silence now has down. 
And sound of terror freight the chilly gale ! 

At the first note of this discordant din, 

The gallant Fireman from his slumber starts, 
Reckless of toil or danger, if he win 
The tributary meed of grateful hearts. 
From pavement rough, or frozen ground, 
His engine's rattling wheels resound, 

And soon, before his eyes, 
The lurid flames, with horrid glare, 

Mingled with murky vapor, rise 
In wreathy folds, upon the air, 
And veil the frowning skies ! 

Sudden, a shriek assails his heart ! 

A female shriek! so piercing wild 
As makes his very life-blood start — 

" My child ! — Almighty God ! — My child'" 

He hears — and 'gainst the tottering wall 

The ponderous ladder rears, 
While blazing fragments round him fall, 

And crackling sounds assail his ears! 
His sinewy arm, with one rude crash, 
Hurls to the earth the opposing sash, 



NEW YORK. 271 

And, heedless of the startling din, 

Though smoky volumes round him roll, 
The mother's shriek has pierced his soul ! 
Sec ! — See ! — He plunges in ! 

The admiring crowd, with hopes and fears, 

In breathless expectation stand ! 
When lo ! the daring youth appears, 
Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers, 
Bearing the child, triumphant, in his hand ! 



NEW YORK. 

Hail! happy city ! where the arts convene 
And busy commerce animates the scene ; 
Where taste, and elegance, with wealth combine, 
To perfect art, in every 'bright design ; 
Where splendid mansions that attract the eye, 
Can boast, what opulence could never buy, 
The generous wish that springs to Virtue's goal, 
The liberal mind, the high, aspiring soul ; 
The freeborn wish that warms the patriot's breast. 
The chaste refinements that make beauty blest : 
These are the charms that give Industry, here, 
A pleasing relish, and a hope sincere ; 
And while they bid the sighs of anguish cease, 
Strew Labor's pillow with the flowers of peace. 



272 NEW YORK. 

When the sad exile, freed from ocean's storm, 
First treads our shore, what hopes his bosom 

warm I 
For welcome meets him with an honest smile, 
And kind attentions every care beguile. 
No dread of tyrants here his peace annoys, 
No fears of fetters mar his bosom's joys ; 
No dark suspicions on his steps attend, 
He only needs one, here, to find a friend ; 
He finds, at once, a refuge and a home, 
Nor longer mourns the cause that bade him roam. 

Where'er he turns, on every side are traced 
The marks of genius, and enlightened taste ; 
He sees in every portico and dome, 
The architectural grace of Greece and Rome ; 
And finds, in our unrivalled promenades, 
Charms that may vie with A then's classic shades, 
That rural scene that skirts the loveliest bay 
That ever sparkled in the solar ray ; ' 
Where the rude engines of relentless Mars, 
Once frowned, in ranks, beneath Columbia's stars, 
But which have since for ever yielded place 
To fashion, beauty, elegance, and grace — 
That lovely scene first greets the wanderer's eye, 
And cheats his bosom of a passing sigh, 
So like some spots upon his native shore, 
By him, perhaps, to be enjoyed no more ! 



NEW YORK. 273 

On either hand, a mighty river glides, 
Which here, at length, unite and mingle tides, 
Like some fond pair, affianced in the skies, 
Whose forms, as yet, ne'er met each other's eyes, 
When the auspicious fated moment rolls, 
They meet — they love — unite, and mingle souls. 

Magnific piles, the monuments of art, 
And lofty spires, adorn this splendid mart, 
Where Piety erects her sacred shrine, 
And pays her homage to the power divine ; 
Where heaven-born " genius wings his eagle flight, 
Rich dew-drops shaking from his wings of light f 
Where Science opens wide his boundless store 
Of classic sweets and antiquated lore ; 
Where freedom, virtue, knowledge, all unite 
To make the scene an Eden of delight ; 
While pulpit, press, and bar, are all combined 
To mend the heart, and elevate the mind. 

Nor do these mighty engines toil alone, 
By other hands the seeds of taste are sown. 
The Drama opes its bright, instructive scenes ; 
Its object use — amusement but the means : 
For though the muse resort to fiction's aid, 
Fiction is here, but truth in masquerade, 
And thousands, who her grave entreaties shun, 
Are, by her borrowed smiles, allured and won. 
18 



274 YALE COLLEGE. 



YALE COLLEGE. 

Access is mine, the willing gates unfold, 
And Yale's assembled sons mine eyes behold ; 
Our future statesmen, patriots, bards, divines, 
For whom bright Fame the fadeless laurel twines, 
And here convened, and in each youthful nice 
Their rising greatness fancy fain would trace. 
Say, are not here some souls that restless burn, 
On life's great stage to take an active turn ; 
To rise, the awful pillars of the state, 
And rival ancient Tully in debate ? 
Some who possess a portion of that flame 
That gained our Washington immortal fame ? 
Others, whose philanthropic bosoms glow 
To act like Franklin in relieving wo ? 
Whose philosophic souls his fame inspires 
To wield the thunder and direct its fires; 
To soar, on Fancy's wing, through trackless space, 
View countless orbs and all their movements trace, 
Governed by order and unchanging laws, 
And in effects behold the eternal cause ? 
Some glowing with a Homer's living fire, 
Designed to " wake to ecstasy the lyre," 



YALE COLLEGE. 275 

To bid Columbia's future fame arise, 
Aiul rear Parnassus under western skies; 
Here fix the temple of the tuneful throng 1 , 
And rival Albion's boasted sons of song? 
Or arc not here some destined yet to shine, 
With cloudless lustre, in the desk divine ; 
To wake the soul, and guide its feeble view 
To Him who made, and can its form renew ; 
Recall the wandering wretch, his course restrain, 
And gently lead him to the fold again ; 
Arouse the careless, and support the weak, 
And gospel truths with voice unfaltering speak ? 

%. % ;Js * >fc % $ 

Hail, sons of Genius! youthful sages, hail! 
The glory, pride, support, and boast of Yale ; 
Your country's ornaments aspire to prove, 
And grace the spheres in which you're called to 

move ; 
So shall your Alma Mater rise in fame, 
And deathless honors decorate her name. 
And here the muse bewails her hapless bard, 
Whose cruel fate such golden prospects marred, 
For Hope once whispered to his ardent breast, 
* ; Thy dearest, fondest wish shall be possessed'' — 
Unfolded to his view the classic page, 
And all its treasures promised ripening age ; 
Showed Learning's flowery path which led to 

Fame, 



276 TO MRS. MARY W. MORRIS. 

Whose distant temple glittered with his name. 
Illusive all ! — the phantom all believe, 
Though still we know her promises deceive ; 
Chill penury convinced the wretch too late, 
Her words were false, and his a hapless fate. 



TO MRS. MARY WORTHINGTON MORRIS, 

(the amiable and beloved wife of my much esteemed friend 
and brother-poet george p. morris.) 



The seer of old, whose name I bear, 

The prophet who anointed Saul, 
Predicted man) 7 a bright affair 

To grace the rising chief withal : 
So I, once gazing on a youth, 

From boyhood just emerging, 
With genius, talent, virtue, truth, 

To acts of greatness urging — 
Predicted that an angeVs hand, 
Would lead him to the 'promised land. 

Years rolled away, and Fame was his, 
With blessings of the wise and good ; 

And while o'er Hope's sad obsequies 
Thousands as drooping mourners stood, 



MORNING. -»T 

He smiled in triumph — for success 
With liberal hand had crowned him ; 

And Beauty's smile, with Love's caress, 
In silken cords had bound him. 

i" saw t/ie angel at his side — 

' Twas thou — his counsellor and guide. 

New Yobk, May 20th, 1833. 



MORNING. 

The morn, in purple glories bright, 
Now burst upon the rear of Night, 
Who, gathering up his lurid vest, 
Is swift retreating towards the west. 
All nature wakes from soft repose, 
The flowers their dewy breasts unclose, 
Where insect tribes their votaries pay, 
And sip their nectared sweets away. 
The birds commence their matin song, 
And streams of music float along : 
The herds their grassy couch forsake, 
To crop the mead, or taste the lake, 
And all cominei.ee the infant day, 
As toil or pleasure points the way. 



278 TO ARTHUR KEEXE THE VOCALIST. 



TO ARTHUR KEENE THE VOCALIST. 

The minstrel of Erin, who charmed us before, 

Returns from the warm, sunny isles, 
Again on the pure air of Freedom to pour 

The strain which elicits her smiles. 
A freeman must cherish its witchery long, 

Though years have been wasted between ; 
When erst he awakened dear liberty's song, 

The thrill of our rapture was keen ; 
The current of feeling rolled sweetly along, 

And its thrill was delightfully keen. 

He comes from the rich spicy isles of the West, 

Unrivalled in science and tone, 
And warmly is greeted by those who caressed, 

When first his enchantments were known. 
Again will he waken his magical lyre, 

Again cast a spell o'er the scene, 
Till hearts long dejected will kindle with fire, 

And confess that the rapture is keen. 
Oh, his are the tones which can feeling inspire, 

And its thrill is deltehtfull v keen. 



impromptus on rhakesprAre. 279 



THREE IMPROMPTUS ON THE ROOM IN WHICH 
SHAKESPEARE WAS BORN. 

Here wast thou born ! Immortal Shakespeare ! 

here ! 
" No matter where !" — thy fame is just as dear 
To freemen on the mighty Hudson's side 
As where the Avon's crystal waters glide : — 
Xo town, no realm, no hemisphere can claim 
A bard like thee, of universal fame ! — 
As ancient Bethlehem had sure blasphemed, 
To claim the glory of a world redeemed ! 

This little room the place of Shakespeare's birth ! 
Of him whose deathless glory fills the earth ! 
Perish the fiction! — that immortal mind, 
By walls nor limits could not be confined : — 
'T was born in Heaven, and merely paused awhile, 
To take a robe of flesh from Britain's isle. 



Borx in this room ! — that I deny : - 

I VI life and honor pawn, 
That one like him, who can not die, 

Could never have been born ! 



280 TO MRS. 



CRITICS. 

Who seeks for spots in Sol, must gaze 
Through mediums that obstruct his rays ; 
So jealous envy's jaundiced eye, 
Hides beauties, trivial faults to spy. 
We own our work has some defects, 
? Tis what each candid mind expects ; 
But has it marks of taste and talents? 
In mercy let that strike the balance. 



TO MRS. OX HER EMBARKING FOR 

HAVRE. 

Lady, we part — I do not say farewell ! 

So cold a word my heart will not allow ; 
'Tis breathed too often when no bosoms swell 

With such emotions as oppress me now ; 
For I remember well when first we met, 

And note the years we since have seen depart, 
By acts of kindness I can ne'er forget, 

Graved deeply on the tablets of my heart. 



TO MRS. . 281 

This monitor ne'er sleeps ; but I've another, 

Who hourly breathes her grateful prayers for 
thee ; 
For kindness to my children — it is their mother, 

Whose blessings will attend thee on the sea. 
She prays to Him who stilled the boisterous wave 

Of Galilee, and hushed the tempest wild ; 
She prays that His kind providence may save 

The widowed mother and her darling child. 

Lady, we part — and here thy friends are doomed 

To mourn in tears thy absence for awhile ; 
But not with hopeless grief, for 'tis presumed, 

A happy meeting yet will light our smile. 
Go, then, where love invites thee — Gallia fair, 

Land of the vine and sweet perennial flowers ; 
Thy children's fond embrace awaits thee there ; 

Receive them, then, and fly again to ours. 

No prayers can shield thee from each treacherous 
gale, 

Or were this trifle blest with magic power, 
Thy venturous bark should have a prosperous sail, 

While memory wakened every lonely hour — 
Recalling thoughts with us again to dwell, 

When rough old ocean turbulently raves — 
With us who feel, but can not say farewell ! 

To those we love upon the stormy wave. 



282 TO MY FRIEND MR. E. PARMLY. 



TO MY FRIEND, MR. E. PARMLY, 

ON THE MORNING OF HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, 
JULY 8TH, 1824. 

When, on ebon car advancing, 

Mellow eve resumes her sway, 
While on rippling waters dancing. 
Brightly sparkles Cynthia's ray, 
Freed from languid day's dominion, 
Hearts are light, 
Eyes are bright, 
Music playing, 
Zephyrs straying, 
Fan the groves with balmy pinion ; 
Then will I remember thee, 
Wilt thou, then, too, think of me ? 

When through sheets of fleecy vapor, 
Glows the zenith's starry dome ; 

When the glow-worm lights her taper, 
To allure her rover home ; 

While pale Avarice counts his treasure, 



TO THEODORE S. FAY. 283 

Lovers meet, 

Moments sweet, 

Vows renewing, 

Doubts subduing, 
'Tis the hour of purest pleasure ; 
Then will I remember thee, 
Then bestow one thought on me. 



TO THEODORE S. FAY, 

ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. 

The sails are unfurled, and the anchor apeak, 

The pilot is now at the wheel, 
Adieu ! we must lose thee ! but words are too weak 

To express the emotions we feel ! 
May fresh western breezes, propitiously fair, 

Thy gallant bark safely propel, 
While we will invoke, in each soul-breathing prayer, 

A blessing upon thee — farewell! 

Far, far from thy home, and from liberty's clime, 
To the land of the graces you hie, 

Where vales of enchantment, and mountains 
sublime, 
Delight and astonish the eve. 



284 TO THEODORE S. FAY. 

Where genius and taste, and the sweetest of arts, 

In classical beauty excel ; 
But ah ! wilt thou find such affectionate hearts 

As those which now bid thee — farewell ! 

Then, music and love, to the light-flitting hours, 

The plumage of paradise lend ; 
And, sporting with beauty in balm-breathing 
bowers, 

Will smilingly welcome our friend. 
But ah ! can their witcheries ever impart 

A joy like the conjugal spell, 
Which she, who attends thee, has laid on thy heart ? 

We know that heart better — farewell ! 

For her, and for thee, we shall blessings invoke, 

And if storms on the ocean assail, 
May He, who to Galilee's billows once spoke, 

Soon silence the voice of the gale. 
And roseate health, as she lights up the cheek, 

Each care from your hearts shall dispel ; 
And, oh ! when possessed of the blessing you seek, 

Return to our bosom — farewell ! 



THE PAST. 285 



THE PAST. 

How fleet is time ! — tbe little recent year 
Seems like a moment that was scarcely here 
Before 'twas wasted ! Time still onward flies, 
Swift as a swallow seems to cleave the skies ; 
Laughing at those who, indolently blind, 
Seized not his forelock — he is bald behind ! 

The past ! what is it bat a faded dream 
Of promised joys ? A bubble on the stream 
Which flows unceasing to a shoreless sea, 
The boundless ocean of eternity ! 

The past ! where is it ? In the Eternal mind 
It still exists, to all the future joined, 
In one vast panorama ! Mortal eye 
Sees but the present, as it passes by ! 

The past ! why is it that it leaves behind 
So sad a legacy to all mankind ? 
Memory looks back with vain regrets and tears 
While lingering o'er the urn of wasted years. 

The past ! how is it that we don't improve 
From these instructive pictures as they move ? 
Precept! — experience ! — how can man demur ? 
lt Be wise to-day—'*" is madness to defer !" 



286 the minstrel's farewell. 

Thus mourn the bumble, with the grave in 
view — 
Thus teach the wise — and what they tench is true. 
But hope, sweet hope, illusive hope, still smiles, 
Points to the future — flatters and beguiles ; 
All trust her treacherous promises too far, 
The bubble bursts ! — and we are — tohat weave I 



THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE. 

When Fate's stern fiat dooms fond friends to 
part, 
What thrilling pangs pervade the feeling heart! 
With ardent glow the proffered hand is pressed, 
While the moist eye bespeaks the aching breast ; 
The final gaze, we, lingering still renew, 
Dreading the last, the painful word — Adieu ! 

So I — a bird of passage — wont to rove — 
Have oft been doomed to leave the friends I love ; 
Have oft been fated to endure the smart 
Which now afflicts my lacerated heart ; 
That heart alive to every finer glow, 
Enrapturing joy — or ecstacy of wo. 
Then, friends of song, attend your Minstrel's lay, 
He sings but this, and throws his lyre away. 



the minstrel's fakewell. 287 

In life's fair morn, when sunshine warmed the 
scene, 
And fairy hopes danced o'er the laughing green, 
His infant Muse essayed the artless strain, 
On Charles's bank, or Newton's verdant plain ; 
Gave him her lyre, and taught his hand to play, 
While flattering Echo chanted back the lay. 

Pleased like a child, he fondly thought 't was 
Fame, 
Ambition kindled, and he sought the dame ; 
Unknowing where her lofty temple stood, 
He pierced the grotto and explored the wood ; 
But vain the search, in meadow, vale, or hill, 
The air-formed phantom flew, but answered still, 
Till tired Experience proved the sylvan scene 
Held not the temple of ambition's queen. 

With fond regret he left the calm retreat, 
Where Nature's charms in sweet disorder meet, 
Diversified with meadows, groves, and hills, 
And Charles's thousand tributary rills — 
Left rustic joys, to court the city's smile, 
And woke the strain in Beauty's cause awhile. 
He sang of love — a minstrel's sweetest dream, 
And sang sincerely — for he felt the theme ; 
His soul was poured in every amorous tone — 
An angel heard, and answered with her own. 



288 the minstrel's farewell. 

Columbia called — to arms her veterans sprang, 
He felt the impulse, and of glory sang ; 
Swept o'er the chords, assumed a loftier lay, 
And vent'rous dared with bolder hand to play. 

But, ah ! his harp no blooming laurel bears, 
His humble brow no blushing garland wears ; 
Unknown, unsought, he must obscurely sigh, 
Held from despair but by affection's tie ; 
By love and penury condemned to know, 
Like Leda's sons, alternate bliss and wo. 

Then Fame, adieu ! no more he courts your 
charms ; 
Welcome, Retirement ! take him to your arms ; 
Here, gentle Muse, he gives you back the lyre, 
Whose tones could once his youthful bosom fire. 
That lyre shall sleep, nor breathe a tone again, 
Till scenes celestial claim the glowing strain ; 
Till realms eternal burst upon the view, 
And animate the wondering bard anew. 
Till then, farewell ! He follows Fame no more ! 
Bat spurns the shrine at which he knelt before — 
Let Poverty prepare her bitterest draught, 
And malice barb his most inveterate shaft — 
The troubled dream of life will soon be o'er, 
And a bright morning dawn to fade no more. 

THE END OF VOL. I. 



l>1" 






March , 1905. 



NT. STERLING LOAN. 




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